Cotton Fluff Ambitions
by TheyCantTouchUsOrWhatWeHave
Summary: Kurt is a tribute from District 11, Blaine is a tribute from District 12. The only things they have on their minds is winning. But when an impromptu romance brings forth new essentials, they wonder if there's more to life. There can only be one prevail.
1. Reapings

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>One  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3,099

**A/N: **Welcome all to the 28th annual Hunger Games! My name is Lexi and I will be your host. All characters are from _Glee_, but the setting is the Hunger Games/Districts/Capitol used from the book. I did my research, so I hope all is accurate. Unfortunately, there can only be one winner, so expect plenty of character death. Katniss and Peeta's romance will be mirrored by Kurt and Blaine (they are the main couple of this story), although they are from different districts. If you'd like more information, or just want to know more about me, please visit my tumblr (no spaces): http : / / beauty from pain eventually . tumblr . com/ I plan on updating every Saturday. I'd love to hear your opinions, so please leave a review if you have the time. Thanks and enjoy :D

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _Glee _characters, nor _The Hunger Games, _both of which are too amazing to be owned by me.

* * *

><p>The sky was streaked with early morning pastel colors, portraying a foreign sense of happiness. Seas of grain stretched over distant hills that soon transformed into a murky green forest, emanating the sounds of chirping birds and rustling branches. Before that was a never-ending electric fence.<p>

Kurt exhaled slowly, taking in his surroundings. Everything was calm here. Everything was okay. There was no Reaping behind the fence; his safe dimension where no Capitol ruled and all was well. But he knew it would not last forever. He had to return to his home, back to the suffocating, smoky streets of District 12.

He laid back, allowing the grain stalks to tickle his neck, and placed his hands behind his head. His thoughts collected like snow falling on a winter day. Kurt thought of his name, scribbled on forty-two pieces of paper, scattered so carelessly in a bowl along with many others. He thought of the Gamer Makers preparing this year's death match, and of the Capitol inhabitants in their fancy attire, parading around and already placing bets on districts. Most of all, he thought of his father. Burt Hummel was a mineworker, the average fifty year old of District 12. They were barely scraping along with the poor pay from the Capitol, and living off some of Darcy's cows.

Darcy was yet another thing to fret about. She was seventeen, her name would go in almost as much as his. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she was chosen to compete. Darcy Muldoon was his best friend; a wily redhead with an enthusiasm rate that seemed to never halt.

An eagle soared overhead, long bronze wings flapping in the gentle breeze. Kurt straightened, watching it glide easily as if it were a fish swimming in the ocean. He stood up on shaky feet, weary with lack of rest from the previous night, and began to jog in order to keep up with the magnificent creature.

It gazed down as if amused. _Let's race,_ the eagle's steady eyes commanded, golden beak opening to release a screech.

Kurt's pace picked up, his polished black boots stomping through the wheat field. He felt so carefree. No, he wasn't Kurt Hummel: eighteen year old coalminer-in-training, he was a soaring eagle.

If he had wings, he would fly away and never, ever come back. He would fly to the Capitol and then further on from that. He would find a way to corrupt the hell of a society Panem was.

A loud bell shattered the silence. Kurt froze, the eagle continuing on, and watched the small huts yards away. Figures began to emerge. He could almost see their bony knuckles, the purple bags beneath their eyes, their good luck charms.

Kurt resumed his run towards the fence, his happiness having evaporated. It was time for the Reaping.

Once he reached the wired fence and slid beneath the metal bars, he joined the crowd of people slowly walking towards city hall. Little girls with ironed gowns and tied hair, expressions of terror on made-up faces. Little boys with toy hovercrafts clutched tightly at their sides, cowering in crisp suits.

Kurt tightened his posture and stepped up to the line of eighteen year old men waiting to be recorded. He searched over slick heads to find a vibrant red one. Darcy waved sadly from a couple lines over, her green eyes missing their light.

He nodded to her, lips twitching up to offer a small smile of encouragement. She blinked in response and turned stiffly away.

Kurt's stomach twisted into knots of fear, and he held out his hand to be pricked by the needle. A woman from the Capitol grinned up at him, pressing the pearl of blood onto the chart and saying loudly, "Kurt Hummel."

He accepted the shred of gauze and held it to his finger. Horror radiated from the entire place, the sickly scent of coal and dust blending with sweaty palms and damp armpits.

Kurt was corralled into another line of men, some of which gave him wry glances. Time passed as slowly as marmalade from a spoon. He wanted to go back to chasing the eagle, and pretending that he was some free spirit.

The giant screen behind the stage flickered to project an image of District 12. Cameras shot from every angle. Kurt spotted some of Darcy's siblings, carrot tops, crying in the younger pen.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A woman dressed in a gaudy indigo dress that expanded over her hips and sparkled in the sunlight hopped giddily up to the microphone. Her lips and eyes were painted heavily in silver glitter, her curly blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders. "Welcome to the 28th annual District 12 Reaping! It's such a delight to see you all here, alive and thriving. Well, I wouldn't say _thriving." _

She paused, expecting a laugh, and when one of the children began to cry, spoke again. "My name is Holly Holliday! I will be your escort and official speaker for the Hunger Games. My, my, look how many year have already passed! It's the twenty-eight, good God, where've all the years gone by?" Holly cleared her throat. "Let's move on, shall we? I know you've all been waiting for this! Who wants to be a tribute? Hmm? Fun, fun, fun."

Kurt scoffed into his shoulder. She was a primp, tacky bitch from the Capitol. Last year, and the year before, their speakers had been no different. The day the Capitol would send somebody dressed ordinarily would be the day the world ended.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please refrain your applauding until both tributes have been chosen. Without further ado, I draw a name from the girls…" She dipped her clawed, magenta nails into the bowl of white papers. She swirled them around dramatically, winking at the crowd, before scooping up one of the scraps and unfolding it.

Holly beamed wickedly. "Please congratulate this year's District 12 female tribute: _Santana Lopez!_"

Kurt swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew Santana. They had gone to grade school together. She was a Latina that wasn't afraid to speak her mind.

Synchronized heads turned to gawk in the direction of eighteen year old women. Santana sniffed indignantly and took a timid step up to the stage. Kurt saw the way her eyes watered, and noticed the way her hands gripped the air, as if searching for an anchor.

"Come along, dear," coaxed Holly. "We don't have all day."

Santana allowed herself to be hugged by Holly, her face suddenly covering the screen. Her beady brown eyes desperately peered at the crowd, quietly asking _why her. _

Holly patted her shoulder, then wiped her hand on the hem of her skirt. "And now, for the male tribute." She reached into the opposite bowl.

Kurt's eyes closed, blocking out everyone around him. He didn't want to see who went up. They were going to die anyways. He took a deep breath. Yes, it was nice in his secluded mind.

Somebody roughly nudged him and he opened his eyes to glare at the person when he realized everybody was staring at him. Holly gestured at him, annoyed. "_Kurt Hummel!" _

It was that moment that everything he had worked for was swept away. He was going to die; there was no question about it. Fear squeezed his heart, took over his emotions. Stone-faced, he moved forward.

Holly rolled her eyes. "Darlin', we don't have all day."

Kurt's breath was coming in shallow gasps, chest stuttering as it lifted and fell. He observed the relieved boys around him. A small part of him selfishly wished one of the stronger men would volunteer.

The walk to the stage seemed to last forever, a cloud of despair looming above him. "Kurt!" Darcy's faint sob rang out in the dead air.

Holly Holliday snatched the sleeve of his suit jacket and practically heaved him up the remaining stairs. The wooden stage creaked beneath his feet as they strode to the microphone. A drop of pity reflected in Santana's gaze.

"Well." Holly giggled and gave a pathetic little jump on the balls of her feet. "Can we get some applause for them? Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez, District 12 tributes!" She flashed a brilliant smile in the direction of the camera.

Kurt angrily stifled a whimper. He would not show weakness in front of his father; in front of his _district. _He planted his feet firmly on the ground and observed the pitiful expressions, kissing three of his fingers and raising them in the air.

Nothing happened at first, only a small cough from Holly and a confused stare from Santana. And then Burt Hummel raised his three fingers, along with Darcy. An entire wave of people held up their hands in a salute and Kurt felt it in his bones.

He might be petty, he might be unpopular and unbeknownst, but he was strong. His mother had taught him that. And it was his duty to bring pride to his father and the district by attempting to stay alive for as long as possible.

Holly cocked an eyebrow, saying the signature words into the mircophone as the screens faded to blackness, signalling the end of the Reaping. "And may the odds ever be in your favor."

* * *

><p>Blaine's favorite thing to do was blend in. Being invisible was the highlight of his otherwise eventless routine. Blaine was the third child of six, so battling for attention in the Anderson household was nonstop.<p>

He hated living in District 11. Plains of cotton and wheat inhabited about eighty percent of the district, and workers were forced to spend hot hours under a pulsing sun. It infuriated Blaine knowing that over half the things they produced were shipped straight to the Capitol.

He bent over and used the stub of his knife to saw away at a thick stem that flowed up into the familiar poof of cotton. Blaine wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, already exhausted. He was lucky that they only had to work until lunch, and afterwards a would begin the Reaping.

Blaine's spine ached, and he searched for a place to rest. The shade provided from a petite cotton tree seemed adequate and upon further investigation, all Peacemakers - Blaine called them "hell enforcers" - were watching others. He was free for an impromptu break.

He collapsed against the bark of the tree and inhaled the earthy smell. He loved plants, animals, anything honestly that was natural. He couldn't stand the advanced technology, the hovercrafts, the televisions. At dinner, his family would curl up in front of their tiny T.V., but Blaine preferred to read a book. He was down-to-earth, as his best friend, Miles, called him.

A tuft of cotton floated lazily down and landed on his knee. He picked it up gingerly. It was so frail, and little. The cotton fluff didn't matter alone, but with many others, it proved to be important. Like the Hunger Games.

The games were a sport, a fucking television show for the Capitol. They took worthless kids from each district, turned them into movie stars, and then set them on each other to kill. "They'll be remembered forever. They were a movement for _peace_," President Sylvester preached after each game.

Blaine picked at the dirt beneath one of his fingernails. His name was going to be in forty-two times today. The chances of being chosen…No, Blaine didn't want to think about that.

The piercing whistles burst through the fields and workers slipped in formation, ready to be lead by the Peacemakers back for the Reaping. Miles bounded up to Blaine, smirking down at his friend and offering a hand to pull him to his feet.

"Honestly, B," he laughed, racing over to the head of the Peacemakers. The workers lifted bags of grain and wheat over their shoulders and marched over to the electrical fence. "You can't go five minutes without taking a break."

Miles Torch was a pudgy boy with wispy strawberry blonde hair and faded jean blue eyes. His round cheeks were always turned up in a mischievous smile. "Not true. I can't go ten," Blaine corrected before being harshly shushed by a patrolling Peacemaker.

"Oh, god," Miles murmured. They passed into the town, weaving between the mud-based cottages. "Look at them, settin' those damn cameras 'round everywhere. I still don't get why they make such a big deal out of the Reaping."

Blaine set his bag of cotton down along with the others and sighed softly.

After being fed a simple lunch of oatmeal and helping Serara and Melsie, his twin twelve year old sisters, into their jumpers for the Reaping, he found himself holding their hands and leading them towards the stage behind the mayor's office.

As usual, Harvy and Lynette Anderson didn't have the time to attend such a happening, and instead insisted on staying home with baby Luis. They couldn't care less if Blaine or Serara or Melsie were chosen to compete. To the Anderson parents, children were a burden that came along after too many nights of "fun".

Melsie's hand shuddered in his and Blaine pulled them to a stop in the middle of the bustling crowd. Both had their dark curls tied back into identical braids, corduroy collars framing fear-coated faces.

"Girls, listen to me," Blaine said. "This is the first time your names are in. I _promise _you won't be chosen, okay?" He kissed their foreheads and shoved them playfully towards their pen. "Besides, you're just too adorable."

Blaine masked his terror well, buried beneath unshed tears that took shelter in his chest. He needed to show his sisters that everything would be fine, when in fact, nothing ever would be.

His heartbeat sounded like thunder in his ear as the needle was inserted in the pad of his finger and then dropped to the paper to be recorded.

"Blaine Anderson," confirmed the much too chipper nurse.

From then on, it all passed in a blur of motions. He had learned to block out all happenings for the next hour; experience from the last six years of Reaping. Some Capitol man paraded onto the stage, his violet tuxedo shimmering and matching hair combed back.

"Welcome to the 28th annual Hunger Games!" he yelled into the microphone. "My name is Reg Stanley, your escort and announcer for the Hunger Games. I'd like to draw your attention to the…"

Blaine focused on a beetle crawling across the dirt, the black shell reflecting the sun, and thin legs scuttling across a rock. He wanted to be that beetle. It seemed so at rest with the world. Well, other than the fact that it was about to be stomped on.

"The District 11 female tribute is…" Reg winked at the crowd and clutched one of the papers.

Blaine closed his eyes and whispered, "Please don't let it be Melsie or Serara. Please, please, please."

"_Beth Corcoran!_"

No! Blaine lurched. She was one of Serara's friends; only twelve years old. Surely someone would volunteer. It was silent. His throat contracted with the effort of saying something. He wanted so badly to scream. She was just a _baby._

Somebody did scream. A woman with flowing ebony hair was being restrained by guards. Shelby, Blaine thought her name was, Beth's mother. She scratched the air, howling out for her daughter.

Reg ignored Shelby. "Beth, sweetheart, come on up here. Be the honored tribute of District 11."

The girl hiccupped, wrapping her arms around herself and took timid steps towards the stage. Blaine watched angrily. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides until Miles bumped his shoulder and motioned to a Peacemaker glaring him down.

Beth resembled a deer right before an arrow is fired. Her huge blue eyes glistened with tears, her plain patchwork gown was frayed at the hem, and her skin was dirty around the edges from working in the fields.

Reg smiled. "Lovely, lovely. Isn't she lovely? I think she's _lovely._ Perfect! And now for the boys!"

Blaine felt like curling up in a ball and crying. He wanted to save the girl, go up on stage and throw a tantrum. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk his siblings being punished for his actions.

"The male tribute for District 11 is…" Reg dramatically read the paper. _"Blaine Anderson!" _


	2. Goodbyes and Train Ride

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter:<strong> Two  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3,714

**A/N: **Thanks to all who favorited and followed on Tumblr. It means so much! If you want more information on the story, spoilers for upcoming chapters, or just want to learn more about me, visit my tumblr (no spaces): http : / / beauty from pain eventually . tumblr . com/. This story is not centered around Blaine, but I included his reaping because I felt like you needed to read it. But I will not be including his train ride, nor arrival at the Capitol. Kurt's POV will be continued throughout the rest of the story unless I see fit for another appearance from Blaine's mind. I can tell you right now that this story will not end well; it's the Hunger Games after all, and there can only be **one winner.** Another gracious thank you to my splendid beta: _xBleedingBlackRosex_. I update every Saturday! :)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Glee, _nor the _Hunger Games_, both of which are too amazing for me.

* * *

><p>Kurt Hummel stumbled over the plush white carpet as he was shoved into the Justice Building waiting room. The door slammed, a framed picture of the President shaking hands with the mayor trembled against the wall.<p>

He climbed to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls. The room was exquisitely furnished, with a satin couch and a coffee table complete with little candies in a china dish bowl.

For a moment, he allowed himself to be amazed and sat down on the couch. Kurt thumbed over the soft material, a leisure, and fixated his gaze on the window across from the sofa.

A perfect image of the caved openings of the coal mines nestled in the midst of a grassy green hill. Further beyond was the fence that encircled the district, and the line of Peacemakers surveying the mine entrances. Although it was the Reaping day, work was not to cease.

Kurt exhaled slowly through his nose and closed his eyes. Everything was so surreal, like he was trapped in a bubble watching himself go up on stage, and watching himself promise to stay strong. He wasn't going to the Hunger Games; no, that was another unlucky boy.

His hands, clenched tightly in his lap, quivered to some foreign rhythm. Pale rose petal lips were wetted with the peak of a strawberry tongue, a familiar nervous habit from Kurt's childhood. He longed to be anywhere else but here. In the mines even, breathing in the thick smoky air and feeling claustrophobic.

A sharp knock on the door startled Kurt and he leapt to his feet. Darcy, with her ragged curls and tear-striped cheeks, was pushed through the doorway. She growled, turning on her heel with balled fists and an inextinguishable fire blooming in her eyes.

"Hey," she snarled at the already bored looking Peacemaker.

He glowered down at her. "Two minutes."

Kurt wrapped his arms around himself as the door clicked shut, awkwardly rubbing the toe of his boot along the carpet. This was his best friend. No matter how hard he could try, there was no way he could maintain his cool with Darcy.

She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, and smiled sullenly up at Kurt. "Capitol's a bitch," she remarked sourly.

Kurt glanced up at the ceiling. "Darce," he croaked. "They've got to have cameras or something. You're going to get in trouble…"

She sniffled and began to pace. "I don't give a _fuck. _These people - assholes - are taking you away from me and forcing you to…to compete to the death." Darcy voice cracked at the end and she collapsed on the couch, dragging a hand through her hair. "To the death," Darcy repeated softly. "How can they take innocent children, stick them in a cage with some knives, and make them _kill _each other. I'm ashamed to be a part of it! They think they own the districts like we're pets, or toys - I don't even know. It's wrong, Kurt, I know it. And so do you."

The Peacemaker pounded on the door gruffly. "One minute!"

Darcy grasped Kurt's wrist, peering deeply into his eyes. "This is _wrong." _

"Please, we can't spend the only time I have left trying to change destiny," Kurt said.

"You need to understand. Just going through life like you're nothing but playthings is not _living, _it's torture. Why should where you're born, what you look like and how you act determine what kind of person you are? Kurt, you're the bravest man I have ever met, but I don't want you to win. I want you to _rebel. _Show them you're not some kind of fucking puppet that bends to do whatever they want."

"You're asking me t-to die?" Kurt asked, heart burdened with a thousand agonies.

"No." Darcy cupped his face. He could smell the peppermint leaves on her breath, and the smoke on her clothes. "I'm asking to change Panem for the better."

He pressed his forehead to hers, debating a response. At last, he settled for saying the three words he was sure of. "I love you, Darce."

The door snapped open. "Time's up," announced the Peacemaker. "Come along."

"I love you, too," she said. "Kurt, remember what I said. It means something, it all means something. You are your own person, not a toy!"

The Peacemaker rolled his eyes and gripped her around the bicep, beginning to drag her out. Kurt nodded at her insistently. "Look after my dad, Darce, please."

Another man appeared in the doorway, escorted by yet another uniformed guard; Darcy's screams faded. A broad shouldered middle-aged man with a balding head and sunken brown eyes stepped up to his son.

"Kurt," he mumbled, a stray tear sliding from the corner of his eye down to his square jaw.

"D-dad," Kurt cried.

Burt embraced his son. Emotions, unspoken words were transferred through overalls and mining coats, seeping into hearts. Kurt felt his father's raw concern, fear, desire that this was all a dream. He hugged him tighter and buried his nose in the scuff of his dad's neck.

They stood like that, unmoving, shaken with sobs, even as the door opened once more. "Time's up," the Peacemaker said for the second time. "We've got to get the tribute to the train station."

Burt turned defiantly, and Kurt could sense the argument before it came. "You're not taking my son from me," Burt hissed out.

Kurt watched the guard, who sneered. "I'm not going to say it again. Get your ass outside before I call up some of my friends to _kick _you out there."

"How can you do this so calmly? Bring my son to his death match?" Burt's tone was spiked with piercing venom. "Don't you realize this is barbarian?"

"Dad," Kurt murmured, resting his hand on Burt's shoulder. "Please."

The Peacemaker chuckled. "It's fun."

Burt was wrenched roughly away and Kurt started after him, shaking so hard his vision blurred. "D-d-dad, I'll be okay. Take care of yourself," Kurt called.

"My only son!" His shouts could be heard although he was out of sight. The door shook with the volume. "Don't take him from me! He's my only son! How can you kill him off like he's nothing?"

Another set of Peacemakers arrived at the entrance, supporting guns beneath their bulky jackets. Kurt allowed himself to be brought downstairs, and loaded into one of the Capitol's speedy car-like vehicles. The windows sparkled in the now past-noon sun, the bright green coloring of the automobile flashing gaudily.

He climbed inside, the seats were a polished leather, and sat down beside Santana. Her glossy ebony hair concealing her expression, hands knotted tightly in her lap. Across from them sat Holly, and a petite blonde woman.

Kurt swallowed hard as the cart lurched and gripped the window handle. "Shall we roll down the top?" Holly asked, peering gleefully at Santana and Kurt. "I think we should. That way, you can wave to all your adoring fans."

She pressed a button and with a _creak_, the top retracted and the sunshine was allowed in. Santana cowered further back, drawing her knees up to her chest and scowling darkly towards Holly.

The vehicle rolled forward, driving around the Justice Building and picking up speed as it sped through the Seam, and towards the train station. Kurt observed the solemn, pity-coated faces and his heart twanged at the thought of leaving his family and friends.

"Luck be with you," an elderly woman with sagging features croaked, patting Kurt's hand as they raced past.

He looked over his shoulder, the corners of his lips twitching up in an effort to offer a small smile of appreciation. Nothing would come.

The woman across from Kurt had stringy, white-blonde hair and clouded blue eyes. Her lips were sloppily dotted with crimson lipstick and her eyes were shadowed with mascara. She slapped Holly's arm, slumping down in the chair.

"'Eyyyyy," she grumbled. "I dunno why…why ya wouldn't let me bring the d-damn liquor."

Holly dug around in her purse for her kerchief, no doubt to sanitize her arm. "April, there will be _paparazzi _at the station. They will have _cameras _and the film will be sent directly to the Capitol. May I remind you that you're trying to make a good impression in order to keep your tributes _alive?_ You don't want to come off as a drunken slut, do you?"

Santana's head snapped up. "April? April Rhodes?" she demanded. "The only District 12 mentor? You've got to be kidding me."

The word "mentor" clicked in Kurt's mind and he tensed. "She's going to be keeping us alive?" The question was directed at Holly, but April responded icily.

"You bet ya prissy asses. I'm the…the bestest you gots," she sniffed indignantly.

Santana shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "We're beyond screwed."

Holly clapped her hands after a rather awkward moment of silence. "Chins up, tributes, we're about to arrive at the train station. I want you to look pretty for the cameras, alright? These are your first photographs, and you want them to be _spectacular," _Holly instructed. "Now, dear, wipe your face. Dirt is not attractive."

Santana snatched the cloth and used the corner to angrily swipe at her cheek. "Happy?" she snarled.

Kurt thought she would be a good friend for the time being, with her defiant streak and bitchy personality. She reminded him faintly of Darcy.

Holly flinched. "None of that sass, sweetheart. You want to come off as innocent."

The car drove up to the station, slowing as it parked. Kurt had only been here once before, when he was eight, to watch the train transport his mother's dead body to the Capitol to be accounted for and buried in the huge cemetery.

He remembered his father's firm figure hovering over him, and the way dark clouds loomed in a wet sky. Kurt's tears stained his complexion, and his nose was red from the cold. He shivered inside his mother's roomy white jacket, which still smelt of faded roses and the porridge she had baked for breakfast a couple days ago.

Elizabeth Hummel was sick with pneumonia, one of the few diseases that the District 12 medical team was unable to treat. No matter how many times Burt groveled at the expensively clad boots of the Capitol, they refused to assist.

One day, the coughs that racked her fevered body proved to be too much and Kurt found her in the bed, pale as the sheets and her chest stilled.

As ritual when somebody from the districts dies, they're taken to the Capitol graveyard. Family and friends are allowed to see them off, but a funeral is a luxury only permitted for "well-known" people.

Kurt was jerked from his memory as the violent light from the camera flashes illuminated the entire perimeter. He covered his eyes and grabbed onto the sleeve of a Peacemaker.

"Hello, hi, yes," Holly was greeting the Capitol photographers, striking poses and projecting brilliant grins. "I'm Holly Holliday, the speaker and escort for the District 12 tributes. Mm? What's that? Oh, of course. Kurt, Kurt, darling. Come here and smile real pretty for our Capitol acquaintances."

Kurt ducked his head, aware of Holly's sharp manicured nails digging into his skin. "Over here, over here!"

"Look over here!"

"Kurt, how do you feel about being the District 12 tribute?"

"How far do you think you'll make it?"

"Are you nervous?"

"Mr. Hummel!"

"Did you say goodbye to your family? Was it emotional?"

"How do you feel?"

"Kurt Hummel!"

He was bombarded with questions and groping paparazzi. Holly only held him still and forced him to endure through the prying stares.

"Mr. Hummel," screamed a purple haired woman holding a microphone. "Tell us about your family! How do they feel about this riveting change in events?"

Kurt looked up, still dizzy from the lights. "Uh, well," he replied nervously. "It's only my dad - he works in the, uh, mine. We weren't expecting for me to be drawn…But I guess it's reasonable because I'm eighteen and it's gone in forty-two t-times. My dad was…well, he was devastated. Who wouldn't be? I mean, his son is going into a blood bath," Kurt rambled.

The reporter watched him blankly. Holly moaned an tugged him away. "What he means," she clarified, "is that his father was hit by a forceful wave of emotion. His only son to fight for such an honorable cause!"

The paparazzi beamed, pleased with the answer. Holly nodded and dragged Kurt off to the boarding train. "Okay," she said as she adjusted his overalls. "Speaking is not your strong point."

The train was made up of several different compartments; kitchen, dining, separate bedrooms with bathrooms, luggage and entertainment. It was the largest confined area Kurt had ever been and it positively captivated him.

Holly swept about, showing them through the different compartments while Santana and Kurt dawdled behind in a daze. The entire place radiated Capitol, with the gold trimming and carpeting that sunk in about five inches wherever you stepped.

"We'll be there in the morning," Holly said, stopping in front of the bedrooms. "For now, you're free to do whatever you like. Please bathe before we reach the stylists tomorrow. It's always a challenge to clean the 12ers, and we don't want to offend anyone! I'm off to discuss things with our lovely driver. If you need anything, just holler."

She pranced off, flicking her fingers in a wave. Santana brushed her hair over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose. "No doubt April's wondered off to find some rum," Santana remarked stiffly.

Kurt chuckled. "Yeah."

"I suppose we should watch the reapings from the other districts. You know, access our opponents."

"G-good idea."

He followed the snappy brunette to another cart, in which expensive-looking crème sofas were positioned in front of the largest television Kurt had ever seen. He was used to the Hummels' tiny, poor reception, box set that set in front of the fireplace and was only used once a year.

"Damn," whispered Santana. "This is really happening. They're giving us the best experiences before they fuckin' kill us off."

With that rather broad comment, Santana plopped down on the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table, plucking a couple chocolate balls from the dish beside her bare toes.

"Coming, doll face?"

Kurt was yanked out of his day dream as he numbly sat down beside Santana. The television flickered to life and a robotic feminine voice called out, "What would you like to watch?"

Santana and Kurt exchanged surprised glances. "Uh, the reapings?" Santana said tentatively.

"Reapings," the television repeated. "District 1..."

For the next hour, all that Kurt could focus on were the faces. He memorized them, and tucked them away for future reference. A buff boy from District 1 who flexed his muscles: cocky. A girl from District 6 that started to cry when her name was called: sentimental. A boy in with leg assists from District 9: bad legs. A blonde who clapped before realizing it was her from District 10: intelligence. The most intriguing, however, came from District 11. A short, curly-haired boy with soft hazel eyes and a stony expression, along with the youngest of the tributes. He couldn't find a weakness in the boy - Blaine Anderson? - and felt his cheeks flush at the realization of his attraction.

When the reapings ended with Kurt's face on the screen, Santana clicked off the device and sat back, breathing shallowly.

"Well," she said coolly. "I hope your ready for a bit of a challenge, Hummel."

Kurt blinked. "Aren't you…oh, I don't know, _terrified?_"

Santana stretched and stood up, some of her cocoa hip bone exposed as her cotton shirt lifted. "Of course I am. But I'm good at putting a mask over my emotions. It's a good technique, lady lips, one that you should pick up before those sexy muscle men cook your ass."

She sashayed out of the room, blowing a mocking kiss at Kurt and then heading off to her bedroom. Kurt leaned back against the cushions and swallowed as hard as he could, desperate to remove the thick fear from his body.

But it wouldn't go.

* * *

><p>Holly clapped her hands eagerly, eyeing the elaborate foods laid out before them like a hawk. "It's been a tiring day, shall we feast?"<p>

April took a swig from her tequila glass and grinned stupidly, swaying in the slightest. "'Ey, 'ey. Go ahead, but I doubt you'll be able to, heh, keep it down. After all, ya kids have been drinkin' a good load. 'S not good for ya health; you gotta win the…win the games! Bring home the lottery! And…and…what was I sayin'?"

Santana scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Only you've been drinking, Ms. Rhodes," she hissed. "We're clean."

Kurt directed his attention to their dinner. Steaming buttered rolls, cranberry jell-o, rice pudding, steak, duck, chicken, venison, clams, shrimp, lobster, potatoes, soup, salads, freshly cut fruits and vegetables complete with tall glasses of sparkling cider and juice. He didn't know where to begin.

Santana ravenously grabbed a spare rib drizzled with oozing sauce and sunk his teeth into the hot meat. She groaned and motioned to Kurt. "You've _got_ to try this. I swear, I've died and gone to heaven."

_I've died and gone to hell,_ Kurt thought bitterly, but grabbed a roll nonetheless. His fingers slipped against the melted butter, and it felt warm and fuzzy in his stomach. Warm and fuzzy. He took another bite, and another. Pretty soon he and Santana had practically sampled everything on the rich mahogany table.

He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his swollen stomach. It had tasted wonderful going down, but as it settled he thought he sensed the duck making it's reappearance.

Holly dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with her ever-present kerchief. "So how was it? Acceptable? You know, we have this spectacular chef, Ravi, he's _amazing_. Makes the best venison I've ever tasted, mm-hmm."

Santana grimaced. "No mentions of food, I beg of you."

"Oh, that's right," said Holly. "This happens every year. You poor district people aren't used to eating so much. I'm just happy you haven't vomited yet, although the same cannot be said about our dear April here"

Kurt grimly adjusted his body and yawned. How he was tired he had no clue. He was a goddamn tribute, going to fight for his death in a couple days. Santana was soaking up the pleasure, having showered about sixteen times since climbing onto the train.

Suddenly, a shower sounded glorious. "-big, big day tomorrow," Holly was ranting. "Why don't you two get some sleep?"

"I'm up for it," Santana lifted herself out of her chair. "Goodnight drunken delinquent, Hummel, crazy-ass."

Holly flinched at her label and shifted uncomfortably. "You know, I'm quite exhausted, too. April, Kurt, can you find your ways to bed?"

Kurt nodded, standing up. April tipped over her empty bottle sadly. "I think I'll s-stay down here and get some more…more brandy. Yes, that sounds n-nice. Brandy."

Kurt stumbled off to his bedroom, never have felt more full. His room contained a satin sheeted king-sized bed, a television, desk and bathroom. He showered away his worries for the night, washing them down the glittering gold drain with burning water jets. Then he curled up in his bed, the satin sheets cocooning him, and wept.


	3. Chariots

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter:<strong> Three  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3,715

**A/N: **First of all, a massive thank you to all that favorited and alerted! It means so much that I finally have an audience. Reviews make me sparkle, so if you have the time, please do so! Second of all, thank you for being so understanding on account of last week's update absence. If you want sneak peeks, update schedules or just want to learn more about me or the story, please visit my tumblr at (no spaces): http : / / struck by lightning bowties . tumblr . com/. Expect another update next Saturday! Gracias to my amazing beta: _xBleedingBlackRosex._

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _Glee _characters, nor _The Hunger Games,_ both of which are much too amazing to be owned by me.

* * *

><p>"Nothin' better than a fresh cup o' wine to start the day, eh?" April said, raising her glass and sloshing the dark purple liquid onto the tablecloth.<p>

After a night with nearly no sleep in a bed much too comfortable, and then being forced to change into a sickly tight suit at the break of dawn, Kurt was barely tolerable of April's early morning antics. A sliver of golden sunshine slipped through the blinds on the far window, bathing the silent dining cart in warmth.

Breakfast included the same quantity of elaborate foods; hash browns, eggs (scrambled, fried, hard-boiled), sausage, bacon, waffles, pancakes, muffins, oatmeal and a different array of fruit jell-o's. Kurt couldn't bring himself to swallow anything more than a roll and some juice. He was arriving at the _Capitol _today.

Santana was having no apparent difficulty, and wolfed down her waffles by the dozen. She kept addressing Kurt's curious glances with an expression that read, "What? I am entitled an any way I decide to eat!"

Holly was already clad in her fancy wear of the day, with a cupcake-styled pink dress, fishnet tights, green high heels and her blonde hair was tied up in a beehive with a flashy white bow. She clicked her silver fork on the edge of her platter and sighed dramatically.

"Well," she began, "we should get to the train station in a couple of hours. Last, of course, because your district is so far away."

"What'll happen once we get there?" Kurt couldn't help but ask.

"Oh, we're going to get bombarded with paparazzi, much more than at your petty station. After that, your stylists will want to see you. Tonight is when you make your first official introduction to the Capitol! We want it to be special," Holly said, her spirits seemingly having picked up.

April guzzled her wine and reached for a refill. "And then…hah, and then comes the g-games. The Hunger Games. Have you h-h-heard of them?"

Santana's gaze fastened onto April angrily. "Yeah," she snapped. "And you're the one who's supposed to be coaching us through it."

"What?" giggled April, brushing some of her grimy locks over her shoulder broadly. "Me? I w-won the games once, you know."

"And how did you do that?" Santana stabbed a link of sausage.

"A little thing…A little thing I like to call camouflage. I-I covered myself with all this mud and hid around, only c-coming out…coming out to get some fruits from a nearby tree. I was so clever. I g-guess the big shots forgot all about me! I managed to avoid them until…the l-last day." April frowned.

Kurt drew his knees up to his chest, ignoring the fact it was considered poor manners. "What happened?"

April looked down at her wine sadly. "There were only three…three of them left, you see. I sh-shot two of them with an arrow I'd been hiding when they weren't looking. The last one s-started towards me with his spear, and I d-d-d-didn't know what to do. So I stabbed him. With an arrow. O-Over and over," she confessed.

Santana's spoonful of jell-o froze halfway to her lips and her eyebrows knitted into a line of confusion. "You killed him?"

April shrugged. "Murdered." Kurt's face contorted into one of pure horror and April growled at him. "Don't you dare look at me like that, dreamboat."

Santana cleared her throat. "Are you going to teach us how to survive?" she wanted to know.

April lowered her glass. "No. I'm not."

"Then we're going to get killed!" Santana cried.

"Trust me, sweetheart," snarled April, "that's much better than any fucking win."

"No-"

"Do you know what winning is? Well, do you? Winning in the Hunger Games is killing. Everyone. Oh, doesn't matter if it's a twelve year old boy with a family! Who cares if it's the girl from your district! Nobody fucking cares. They're all meat, pawns, in this game. When you take the life from somebody, it haunts you forever. It doesn't go away when the Capitol gives you giant palaces and fancy gowns or whatever. It never goes. So I'd rather you two die than ever be branded like this. No, I'm not going to teach you how to survive," April said. She stood up, scooping up a muffin. "I think I'd like to eat this in my room."

Holly shook her head. "That woman. Honestly. Some people just don't understand the meaning of fun!"

Kurt rested his chin on his knees and closed his eyes. It was too much. He was supposed to just allow himself to be killed?

"Skank," muttered Santana, her lashes hooding her tear-brimmed eyes. "I'm going back to my room, too."

Her chair screeched as it was roughly pushed back. She tossed Kurt a questioning glance over her shoulder and he, too, rose up out of his chair and dutifully trailed after the girl to her room.

Her bedroom was the same as his, with the beaded gold comforter and crimson walls, plush carpeting that sunk in a couple inches wherever you stepped. She collapsed on her bed, which had been made thanks to the never-ending supply of robot-like maids that patrolled the halls at all hours.

"God, what do you think of that Rhodes chick? Pretty psycho, huh?" Santana hugged a pillow to her chest and set away at gnawing her bottom lip.

Kurt sat down tentatively on the edge of the mattress and nodded bitterly. A few moments of awkward silence skittered by before Santana took a deep breath and propped up her feet.

"So, tell me about yourself. I know we went to elementary school together, but it's not like I knew more than your name," she said.

Kurt twiddled his thumbs absentmindedly. "My, uh, my name is Kurt Hummel. I'm eighteen years old. It's just…Me and my dad. My mom died when I was eight years old."

"Tell me about _you. _What you like, what you do, what you want to become," she encouraged.

"I like to sing," Kurt admitted. "My mother taught me how. I also like…I like clothes, I guess. Fashion, you know, like all the people in the Capitol wear. I buy the weekly issue of _TAUP_ from Fanny's every Tuesday when it comes out. As for the last question, I'm not really going to become anything. But if I had to say something, my friend Darcy and I want to start a road band. We'd travel through the districts, performing for everyone."

"You look happy," Santana pointed out. "Your eyes get this dreamy look and you kind of fade away. It's…sweet."

Kurt blushed. "What about you?"

"Name's 'Tana Lopez. I live with my grandmother and my parents, we get along fairly with the pay from the Capitol. I like staying out of everyone's way; blending into the background. After what happened in fifth grade, I can't bare the publicity. You know what they do to people like me," Santana remarked sourly.

"People like you?"

"You know," Santana whispered, "everybody knew about it in grade school. I like girls…Lesbian, I think is the technical term."

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Oh."

"I swear to god, if you-"

"Santana, I'm not going to. I…I'm the same way. I like boys."

She laughed. "Are you kidding me? Wow, great, won't our district be proud of us. Two fags to fight."

Kurt sighed. "I prefer 'gay'."

She giggled again and covered his hand with her's. "Look, Kurt, I don't care what April says. You're strong and you have a chance to win this thing. _We _have a chance."

He blinked and smiled softly. "I know we can."

* * *

><p>The entire train suddenly darkens as it moves beneath a large stone tunnel. Santana sighed and dug her palms into her eyes roughly. "We've arrived," she declared to a frightened-looking Kurt.<p>

Holly paraded into the theatre cart in which Kurt and Santana were rewatching the reapings, holding up a portable mirror and fixing her beehive and dabbing on more blood-red lipstick. She smiled at them.

"Excited?" she wanted to know. "For heaven's sake, Kurt, darling, put on your big boy pants."

Kurt swallowed hard and gritted his teeth, willing the sudden spike of terror to extinguish.

"Once we get to the train station," Holly continued, "you'll be taken to your stylists and from there you'll make your presentations to the Capitol in chariots, of course, and then to the Training Center for some rest."

Santana was twirling a lock of her shiny ebony hair around her finger. "Do we have to pose for the damn paps again?"

Holly frowned. "No, Santana, watch your language," she remarked sourly. "Ooh, ooh, look there it is! Goodness, it's it gorgeous? Home sweet home!"

Light flooded throughout the cart again as the train exited the tunnel and zoomed along the track over a glistening body of water. Kurt and Santana jumped up to watch the passing Capitol through the spotless window. Buildings that reached up to tickle the blue sky flashed silver in the sunlight. The streets were busy with brightly colored cars moved slowly in traffic, and the sidewalks were alive with hundreds of bustling, oddly attired people.

From yards away, Kurt could still decipher every elaborate stitch on a brunette's floral cupcake dress and he could even see a blue-haired man's roots a pale blonde on the top of his head. All the rainbow colors burned Kurt's eyes and he chewed his lip nervously. Already pedestrians had recognized their vehicle and were hurrying up to the tracks to wave.

Santana crossed her arms and retreated to the couch. "Close the blinds," she demanded.

April _tsk-tsked _from where she leaned against the doorframe, balancing a cigarette between her lips. "Sweetheart, don't you…don't you get it? You _want _them to be your f-friends. That way, maybe they'll t-toss you a couple specials in the g-games."

Kurt pressed his cheek against the cool window and stared out, feeling a tight knot of nausea in his stomach. He felt like he was one of the chess pieces in the fading marble set his father kept on the shelf above the fireplace. Pawns were worth nothing, only there to help please the puppeteers. He and the other tributes were pawns, and the Capitol were going to bid on their lives, all for the lone sake of having an annual sport of enjoyment.

Bile rose in the back of his throat and he clothes the curtains without casting the giggling citizens another glance.

Once the train parked in the Capitol station, Holly herded the duo outside into the humid platform and rushed them towards a large steel door at the end of the walkway. Inside, Kurt witnessed a few other tributes being pushed into rooms by stylists bearing razors and clicking their tongues in pity.

At the end of the hall, thick with clouds of hairspray, were two doors marked District 12. Holly patted Kurt's head and grinned happily. "I'll see you two in a couple hours. Have fun, Emma."

Kurt spun on his heel as long fingernails grazed his cheek. A redhead with bright green eyes and freckles dotting her rosy cheeks dragged Kurt away from Santana and into a room that was scented with antiseptic. She pointed to the large examination bed next to a platter boasting an array of different grooming tools along with a paper gown.

"I'm Emma. Emma Pillsburry, your stylist," she informed him, sticking out a hand.

He shook it numbly, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. "Kurt."

She took a bobby pin from the pocket of her blue corduroy dress and pinned her hair back, looking over Kurt with her sparkling eyes. Out of the few people he had seen so far, and Holly, she was the most normally dressed person, it appeared, in the entire Capitol. And she was a _stylist._

"Usually," Emma was saying, "stylists work as a team. But I prefer to work alone. I like getting to know my clients, and to help them achieve the peak of beauty before they are sent off."

Kurt winced as she snapped a pair of scissors. "You've got a lovely body," she remarked. "High cheekbones, flawless skin, perfect hair and those eyes. It's going to be a pleasure working with you."

"T-thanks," Kurt stammered, taking the gown from her grasp and she turned around to allow him time to change. He slipped out of the silk trousers from the train and removed his shirt.

"My goal today, Kurt, is for you to make an impression. Before you go into the games, you want to make sure you have plenty of allies, you know, people here that can send you things when you're in great need. The only way you're going to do that is if they like you. They want a pretty boy, and that's what I'm going to make you into. My partner, Alex, and I have already designed an outfit we think will do the job well." She turned back around and clapped her hands. "Shall we begin?"

After nearly two hours of being plucked, shaved, and practically performed on with every tool on the platter, Kurt stood in front of the mirror in awe. His skin, porcelain Darcy liked to call it, shimmered from a special moisturizer Emma had rubbed all over his body. His chest was smooth, and toned from working in the mines alongside his father. His hair had finally been washed after days, and combed into a perfect wave that looped over his now groomed eyebrow. A slim black suit covered with sequins stretched over his body. Attached to the cuffs of his sleeves were plastic red and orange flames, identical to the ones also attached to his black shoes.

Emma laughed. "You like it?"

"Y-yes. I mean, thanks. I look…"

"Fabulous. They're going to be drooling over you."

Kurt blushed as Emma straightened his lapel. "I suppose we'd better get you to the chariots. Your companion, Santana is it?, should be ready as well."

The hallway was now crowded with dozens of stylists perfecting the outfits of tributes, chariots that matched outfits lined up at the entrance to a roaring audience.

Santana stood beside a oak wood chariot lead by two black stallions. Alex, Kurt presumed was the man smoothing her curls, winked at Emma proudly.

"What do you think?"

Santana wore a thin layer of mascara that really made her cocoa eyes dazzling, her lips were glossed with pink glitter, her hair was shinier than before and spiraled around her shoulders. She wore a simple dress made of the same material as Kurt, and fabric flames peeked out near her knees.

She did a little twirl, obviously pleased with the way she looked. Her high heels clacked on the pavement.

Emma tapped Kurt's back and he hopped up onto the chariot. "They're going to start going in a couple minutes," she said. "Remember, kids, keep your heads high. You are not weak, you are not scared, you are celebrities. What we're trying to sell here is not cockiness, so don't appear that way. You've got this under control."

Alex kissed Santana's cheek. "Good luck, kids."

Kurt leaned over the polished head of the chariot in order to view the other tributes. At the very front of the synchronized trailer was District 1. A dark-haired girl and muscular boy in glitzy white outfits. Following behind were the other districts. Although the dresses and suits were majestic, Kurt thought they were too much. His attire and Santana's projected modesty and pride, along with the symbolic trademark of the mines they so cherished.

Right in front of them stood District 11. A short boy with gelled hair and hazel eyes along with a twelve year old girl. They both wore plain white attire, the male's a milky suit, and the girl's a puffy cupcake white dress.

"You want pity. Pity, pity, pity," their stylist ranted. "Blaine, dear, I want you to smile. But there has to be this look of _longing _in those gorgeous eyes of your's. And Beth, sweetie, I want you to cry. I want you to look like it's the end of the world. I suppose it is for you two." He chuckled dryly.

Kurt watched Blaine's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously. He plucked at his sleeveand shuffled his feet. Kurt licked his lips.

Blaine looked up at that moment, and their eyes met. A foreign thrill went up Kurt's spine and left it tingling. Blaine's lips turned up at the edges in a shy, feeble smile. Kurt returned one equally tiny and gripped the head of the chariot hard. No, this was his opponent.

It was then that a blaring horn sounded and the District 1 trailer galloped into the coliseum. Blaine and Beth stepped up into their chariot and Kurt was forced to look away.

Each chariot left in an orderly fashion, waving to the crowd as they charged over a red velvet carpet. You could tell who the favorites were. Soon, the District 11 chariot exited.

Blaine and Beth's faces were immediately flashing on the huge screen. Blaine's eyes stared bashfully at the horses, blushing gently. Beth wiped a tear from her cheek. Kurt wondered if they were good actors, or if it was truly how they felt. The Capitol released pathetic "aww"s and cheered when the chariot reached the end.

Emma blew a kiss to Kurt as their chariot lurched and he sent her a silent thank you. The horses stampeded across the ground. Santana turned to wave and beam at the citizens, looking beautiful in her flattering dress. Men snapped pictures and threw her small gold coins of desire. She picked up a stray rose and kissed it dramatically, winking at the man who had tossed it.

Kurt was grinning dumbly at everyone, his heart thumping so painfully he thought it might explode. The cheering stung his ears and the gaudy outfits and lights nearly blinded. _Almost there, _he kept assuring himself. _Almost there._

* * *

><p>It was as if Blaine's entire world had evaporated with the simple calling of his name not twenty-four hours ago. He felt like he was in a numb trance, following Reg wherever he went, and allowing Bryan Ryan, his stylist, to groom him gruffly. Beth seemed no better.<p>

Although their outfits appeared to be made of the downy cotton from District 11, it was truly itchy and ill-fitting. His suit latched onto his body and stuck grotesquely to the dry skin on his elbows. His wily curls had been tamed with a gallon of gel.

He kicked at the pavement beneath his feet and zoned out as Bryan began to lecture them on posture. His eyes roamed dully over the other tributes, lined up and prepping one last time. The crowd's impatient calls already could be heard from the stadium.

As Blaine turned at the demand of Bryan, he caught sight of the District 12 tributes. A boy with chestnut hair and deep, turquoise eyes was staring at him. Blaine's lungs seized and he trembled with the sudden impact of attraction. He was positvie he'd never seen a more beautiful man in all his life. Sure, Blaine had always know that he was "homosexual", but he'd never had an actual crush.

The boy licked his rose petal lips, the motion going straight to prance on Blaine's heartstrings. "Kurt," shouted his female stylist. _Kurt. _Blaine allowed the name to roll off his tongue. It tasted sugary and natural, like it belonged there. _Kurt._

The horn blew, signalling the exit of the first chariots. Bryan forced him onto the chariot, but he still felt the pleasant sting of Kurt's gaze on the back of his neck. Blaine couldn't focus on anything except the boy for the rest of the evening. A small tremor in his heart beat out the question he so longed to answer. _Is this love?_


	4. Training

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>Four  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3,665

**A/N: **I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter. I've been busy with end-of-the-year exams and trying to get organized for graduation. If you've visited my tumblr, you'd see I posted about not being able to update EVERY Saturday, and instead posting a chapter when I finish. I get new alerts and favorites everyday - it's amazing! Thank you all! Please review if you have the time. I also post snippets from upcoming chapters, pictures of the arena and tributes on my tumblr. Follow, or just check me out. :) It's been the reaping, the flaunts, and the training. Up next is the interview. Blaine's POV will be posted as an extra drabble on tumblr. Please keep in mind that I check the _Hunger Games_ book for exact information, and if I messed anything up, feel free to tell me. Thanks again.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _Glee _characters, nor _The Hunger Games, _both of which are too amazing to be owned by me.

* * *

><p>Kurt was smashed at the very back of the elevator, surrounded by Alex, Emma, Holly, April and Santana, who were all gushing about the reaction from the crowd. "I'd say," Holly began, raising her voice above the others in the elevator, "that you left a rather permanent impression on the Capitol. Although it wasn't the best, they all loved you."<p>

April, holding a shot glass and leaning back against the elevator doors as the box zoomed up to the top floor. "I thought they were pretty damn good," she remarked, downing the remaining liquid.

The elevator doors opened with a _ding!_, silence settling over the compartment as the group stared in wonder at the hallway before them. The carpet was plush crème, the kind where you sink in several inches wherever you step, and resembling the carpeting on the train. The walls were covered with lifelike pastel paintings of the Capitol, and several distantly placed trademark symbols of District 12. At the end of the hall was a staircase that winded down into a glistening marble kitchen and a living room smothered in magenta velvet.

Holly stepped out, doing a little twirl as if the entire flat was her design. "Aw, come on, don't stand there like a couple of dead fish. Explore! Kurt, darling, your room's right there on the left. And Santana, sweetie, your's is next to mine."

Santana sighed, and muttered, "Fantastic."

"Dinner's downstairs once you've changed, alright?" Emma said, smiling and kissing Kurt's still made-up cheek.

Kurt stepped down the hallway, pushing open the door on his left and clicking it softly behind him. He exhaled at last, allowing his eyes to slide shut and replay what had just happened. The Capitol really had seemed to eat them up, especially Santana with her natural charm.

He then took in his bedroom; Kurt's sanctuary for the next four days before entering the games. A canopied king-sized mattress with golden satin sheets, a giant screen with metal panels ready to morph into a television or window at the push of a button, and a door that lead into a pearly bathroom.

Kurt took his time shedding the suit, folding it carefully in his top drawer before standing naked in front of the mirror. His skin still sparkled from the moisturizer, his hair still perfectly coifed.

The shower provided a luxurious escape for his thoughts to flow free. A lavender scented foam washed away the makeup and once Kurt was dressed in a plain white tee and dark green sweatpants, he looked like himself again.

The mouthwatering smell of smoked salmon laid delicately on mint leaves and served with a variety of soups wafted throughout the entire flat. Kurt's stomach growled with anticipation and he found Santana, freshly showered, along with the others at the table.

He pulled up a chair, accepting a china plate from one of the expressionless waiters hovering over the table and awaiting commands. He slurped down a thick beverage the tasted like the rare oranges Kurt got for his birthday from his father. It tingled on his tongue and left a fond feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Tomorrow is the first day of training," said Holly, spearing an asparagus. "The Gamemakers will be watching. It's important you take heed of their presence. Because of the impression you made, you will be watched. And I want you up and ready by eight thirty. Training starts at ten sharp!"

Santana swallowed loudly, picking up another piece of salmon with her fingers. Santana's glossy black hair curtained over her shoulders, her dark skin still sparkling with remaining glitter. Holly's right eye twitched ever so slightly in annoyance and she gripped her fork tightly.

"Any tips for us, April?" Santana asked, her hooded brown eyes glaring at the silent bleach blonde.

April took a languid gulp of her wine and leaned back in her chair, patting her belly contentedly. "D-don't fuckin' associate with the other t-tributes. Them, uh, them Careers can be real nasty."

Careers - the term settled something sour atop Kurt's tongue and hurtled through the buttery rolls and crisp salmon. They were tributes from Districts 1, 2, 3 and sometimes 4. They were born and bread for the Games, although it was illegal, and often volunteered. The girls had more than fifty pounds on Santana, and the boys had eighty or more on Kurt.

Santana's expression darkened. "Aren't you going to help us? You aren't really going to let us die, are you?" she demanded, dropping her chunk of fish on her plate with a _thump!_

"We n-need to get her ears ch-checked," April said to Holly. She loudly sipped from her wine and frowned. "Didn't I already tell you, chickie? Winning is like-"

"Torture, yeah I get it," snapped Santana. "I know! But what if Kurt and I want to win? What if we think that we have a chance?"

"Look at the odds! You don't have anything," April said dryly. "_Nothing._"

"You don't know that! You haven't seen the way Kurt can climb, and scout. For god's sake, the boy can track a deer that hasn't crossed through the forests in a week."

"Santana can run," Kurt piped up. "She's faster than a bullet."

For a moment, all that could be heard was the smack of Holly's lavender-stained lips. Everyone else had abandoned their dinners in favor of the custards currently being set on the table. April's gaze flickered back and forth between Santana and Kurt. Kurt knew she was sizing up Santana's bristled posture, and her flushed cheeks.

"You think you have a chance," April repeated, seemingly more to herself than anyone else. "Alright, fine, girl. You win. I'll mentor you, being the annoying optimistic trainer you see on screen. But when you prepare to die a gruesome death, don't come running to me."

"Fine," Santana snarled. She stood abruptly, the crystal chandelier swaying above the table. "I think I'm done."

She stomped off down the hall and to her room, the door slamming shut. Holly cleared her throat awkwardly. "Speaking of, Kurt, dear, you have a big day tomorrow! You'd better get to bed, too."

He nodded numbly and retreated to his room. He clicked a button on his remote and the metal panels flipped to reveal the flashy skyscrapers of the Capitol. He took a seat on the plush cushions beside the screen and allowed his thoughts to finally cascade throughout his mind as he gazed out at the city bathed in blood reds, rosy pinks and fading purples.

He had three days to train; three days to assess his opponents' strengths and improve his own. He knew absolutely nothing about the training stadium, as it was hardly ever filmed. It all depended on the skills he acquired from the training center to help him in the arena.

Kurt had learned the basics of hunting from his father when he was ten, but after Burt was diagnosed with his heart condition, he no longer could assist him. Kurt was best at weaving, that was how they paid for most of their food. It was a trade he learned from his mother, delicate braiding of cheap scraps of fabrics into potholders, aprons, socks, scarves that sold for two plump quails in the Seam market. They were wonderful gifts, provided warmth and gave color to dull homes. However, weaving wouldn't help him in the arena.

Santana could run. _That_'s useful. Although the careers had rippling muscles, and the ability to shred any burden of pity for those killed, they were hefty. The careers were used to being well-fed. They might put up a good chase, but Santana could desert them after a couple yards. Kurt swore that girl was part cheetah.

A knock at the door shattered the silence and he looked up sharply. The sky hovering above the Capitol was now a dark blue, dotted with sparkling stars and illuminated with the blinking lights from Capitol homes.

"C-come in," Kurt called, still wondering how he could've failed to notice the hours ticking by.

A boy about a year older than Kurt pushed the door open. He wore the usual white uniform of the servants, his blonde curls swept to the side.

"Hi," Kurt said.

The boy's green eyes flickered up to his, before moving across the room and peeling back Kurt's comforter and sheets. He smoothed the pillow, and drew the strings on the canopy.

"Thanks for doing this," Kurt tried again.

The boy bowed stiffly and left. Kurt racked his brain for reasons why the boy hadn't responded and then it hit him. Holly had said something about Avoxes, criminals who had their tongues cut out and then forced to work.

He nearly blushed at his foolish actions. Kurt flipped the panels again, and blew out his bedside candle. The sheets were soothing, soft and comfortable. His mind was clouded with fear, but the lulling claws of sleep soon captured the small boy.

Despite the flurry of Kurt's emotions, he managed to sleep through fifteen minutes of Holly pounding angrily on his door the next morning.

"Kurt Hummel! Up, up, up! We've got to get moving! I swear to the high President that if you do not get up right now, I will kill you myself!"

Kurt rolled out of bed. "I'm up!" he replied.

The shower rejuvenated his senses along with the thick layer of now lime green soaps. He dressed in black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic and slim leather shoes after drying and found Santana, Holly and April already starting in on yet another elaborate breakfast.

"About time you got up," said Holly, spooning milk into her coffee. "I've no doubt we're going to be late, and that's going to rub the Gamemakers the wrong way."

"Don't fret so much, Holly." April had sagging indigo bags beneath her eyes, and her ever-present glass of wine was absent. Was she sober? "It's the first day and everyone will be late."

"We aren't everyone," grumbled April.

After eating, Holly lead them to the elevator for the ride down. It still amazes Kurt at how fast the ride takes before the doors open into a stadium complete with obstacle courses and a variety of weapons.

Everyone is already encircling a tall woman with green, spiked hair who is talking loudly and moving her hands a lot. Holly kissed Kurt's cheek and squeezed Santana's hand. "Behave," she hissed.

Two assistants pinned buttons with the number 12 on their shirts. Kurt found himself standing next to a rather short girl from District 1 with beady eyes and thick brown hair. She crossed her arms over her chest and sniffed smugly at Kurt.

The woman with spiky hair explained the procedure of moving throughout the stations. And then the circle breaks. Immediately, it is evident of the attraction between the Careers as they all crowd around the spear station.

Other tributes, some of the meeker, head to camouflage and camp setup. "Where should we start?" Santana asked Kurt.

"Plant identification?" Kurt offered.

Santana shrugged and they made there way over to a platter of different berries and vegetation. For the next three hours, the tributes moved between stations, under the piercing watch of the Gamemakers.

When lunchtime came around, April joined them. She helped herself to the loaves of bread in the center of the table and began dipping the strips of bread in her stew.

"Now, don't look up," she said quietly, "but do you see that boy from District 1? He's the biggest, down to your left."

Kurt casually glanced their way. The boys and girls from Districts 1, 2 and 3 sat together at the largest table, ravenously devouring their meals. At the head was a gruff, chunky boy. His dark eyes were sunken in defined features, his biceps rippling beneath the tunic. He had greasy strings of hair hanging around his face, and the way he gripped his knife sent streaks of terror into Kurt's chest.

"Yeah," whispered Santana. She picked at a hunk of roast beef.

"Name's David Karofsky, he volunteered," April continued. "Rumor is he's the top of District 1's Games training camp, waiting until he was eighteen to join. I've been watching him, he's great with a sword and a knife. Keep your eye on him, 'kay? And for god's sake, Santana, don't fucking show them how fast you can run!"

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, Kurt observing the other tributes when they were too busy to notice. David's partner, Rachel he learned her name was, relied on David. She couldn't hold a sword, she couldn't climb a tree, she couldn't put up a tent, and she couldn't identify a single eatable plant. All Rachel did was parade around, cheering for her partner and glaring at the others.

Kurt couldn't help but notice Santana's constant eye on Brittany, a ditzy blonde from District 10. The way Brittany smiled at everyone, and refused to touch the weapons made Kurt think there was something wrong with her. Her fellow District 10 tribute, Rory, paid no attention to her.

Kurt stood in line for the bow and arrow station, Santana standing in front of him. He was attempting to eavesdrop on Rachel and a District 3 tribute, Quinn's, conversation.

"It's Kurt, isn't it?"

Kurt spun around. It was the rather striking District 11 tribute, the one from he'd made eye contact with at last night's chariot flaunt. His heart pounded rather deafeningly in his ears, and he turned away.

Blaine tapped his shoulder lightly, hazel eyes peering curiously up at Kurt. "I'm Blaine."

"We-" Kurt glanced at the Gamemakers, watching Finn arm the bow. "We aren't supposed to talk, _Blaine._"

The warmth in Blaine's tone sent shivers down Kurt's spine, and he bit hard into his tongue to keep from broadly grinning. "I believe Ms. Spiky over there said we weren't supposed to engage in combat," Blaine protested.

"We still shouldn't talk."

"Why not?" pressed Blaine.

He was so close, an inch or two shorter than Kurt, that Kurt could feel Blaine's breath on his upper lip. It smelled minty, although it was around two in the afternoon. Blaine had long dark eyelashes, and skin the color of Santana's. His ebony curls hung wildly around his chiseled jaw.

"I…Because we're from different districts, and we're just going to kill each other anyway," Kurt said.

"Who says we have to kill anyone?"

This statement made Kurt cock his eyebrow. "It's the _Hunger Games. _Kill or be killed."

"I'd rather be killed than have to take the life of someone," Blaine replied. "That's not my place, watching them engrossed in memories before they are met by a horribly unfair death all too soon. Can you imagine what their families must feel? The hatred toward the tribute that kills their son, daughter, friend, student? I couldn't live with myself knowing I had caused so many people so much pain."

Kurt remembered bringing cups of milk and scarves with Darcy to the families that lost members in the Hunger Games each year. He remembered wishing his father would never have to go through that, or him if he ever had children. He could see Blaine's logic but going down without a fight seemed petty, like he was unworthy.

"Besides, it's not like the Capitol can force me to fight."

Kurt shrugged. "I want to make my father proud, even if I die. Even if it means killing someone. He's all I've got, and perhaps my battle will provide him wealth."

Blaine frowned. "I hope that my death will bestow my father with realization," he admitted as they stepped forward in line.

_Don't do it. Just end the conversation_, Kurt's conscious begged him. "Realization?" _Damn it._

"He's against my…culture, I suppose. He's never had enough time for me, really, it's all about work in the fields and money and food. Which I'd get, if he didn't keep it all for himself. Me and my older brothers have to work for our own pay, our own shelter. Those who work hard shall earn reward. That's my father's motto." The sadness was as heavy as lead as Blaine spoke.

"That must be hard," Kurt murmured.

"Optimism will get you everywhere," Blaine commented, smiling once more. "It's your turn, Kurt."

Blushing, Kurt grabbed a polished bow off the stand. Throughout the entire day, Kurt felt the somehow pleasant prickle of Blaine's gaze. When they finally dispersed for dinner, Blaine offered a tiny wave as they waited for the elevators. Kurt couldn't focus on anything but Blaine as dinner passed slowly. Holly's idle chatter, April's drunken tips, Santana's observations. Sleep did not come as easily as it had the previous night. It seemed he had finally closed his eyes when Holly was banging on his door.

The second day was no better. While Kurt separated poisonous fruits from the eatable, Blaine shared a childhood story that fascinated Kurt while he kept a nonchalant stature. Their minimal converses didn't interest the Gamemakers, so there was no harm to it, Kurt kept telling himself.

On the night of the third training day, Kurt sat alone in his bedroom. He was bent forward in a sitting position, pressing his nose to his ankles and closing his eyes. The soothing scent of a sauna lilies emanated throughout the room. Holly said it was for calming the nerves.

"Yo." Santana pushed the door open with her toe and leaned against the doorway. "Can I come in?"

Kurt sat up. "Sure."

She silently clicked close the door and padded across the room to the couch. She drew her knees up behind her and studied Kurt for a minute. "Hmm. You like that boy, don't you?" she remarked distastefully.

"No. He's an annoying child," Kurt countered. "He won't leave me alone."

"That's a good opportunity. Hack into his weak spots, filter his knowledge, destroy him in the arena," Santana said, picking at one of her fingernails.

The idea physically pained Kurt. He couldn't think of hurting Blaine, little Blaine, with a soft spot for everyone. Over the time of three days, he found himself quite liking Blaine's cheerful presence. Earlier that afternoon, David had sliced the head clean off a dummy and the room was flattened with awe. Blaine broke the silence by saying, "I hope that's not how he fights with his brothers." Blaine saw the good in the bad, the amazing in the awful, the naive in the Games. Whether or not it was love, Kurt didn't care. He was lucky to have Blaine's friendship for the past three days and the day to come. He only hoped one of the Careers got to him first before Kurt was forced to kill him himself.

"I wouldn't do that to Blaine."

"So you do fancy him," Santana said with a smirk.

"And you like that girl from District 10. Brittany, is it?" Kurt sneered.

Santana shrugged. "She's alright, I guess."

A clock on the nightstand ticked away the minutes. "Looks like we're both in a shitload of trouble," Santana eventually sighed. "We're supposed to kill each other, and instead we're falling in love."

"I'm not falling love!" Kurt yelled.

"You know it, I know it, Blaine knows it. There's nothing we can do about it except live life while you've got it," Santana grumbled. "You know what? Fuck the Gamemakers. We're teenagers too, we've got hormones. It's okay to love."

Kurt's stare was icy. "It's not okay to love when you've got to kill them."


	5. Scores and Interviews

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>Five  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>4,829

**A/N: **Oh, my god, when I read the reviews I started crying! Thank you all _sooo_ much! It means a lot :) I've had the worst writer's block. I swear I started this chapter maybe eight times before I was finally satisfied. It's by far the longest chapter I've written since the start, and includes some of the training sessions, scores, and the following day before the interview. I'm taking finals at the moment, and it kind of makes my life nothing more than hectic! I don't know when I'll get the next chapter out - the first day in the Games. I've also been re-reading the _Hunger Games_ book to make sure I get all the details right, but I'm not perfect, so catch me if I miss anything :) Thank you all again! _struckbylightningbowties_ over on Tumblr.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the _Glee _characters, nor the _Hunger Games, _both of which are much too fabulous!

* * *

><p>Kurt had refused the ice pack. He sat silently on the bench, hands folded in his lap, staring at the ground while the prompting bruise on his brow darkened with every minute. The tribute from District 1, David, Blaine had learned, was practicing with launching the weights when a twenty-pounder had gone swinging toward Kurt and knocked him to the ground.<p>

"I'm so sorry!" Karofsky had fretted over the boy as the nurses assured him that Kurt would be fine.

Blaine didn't miss the proud high-fives exchanged between the careers. He had knelt down beside Kurt, just as he shooed away the offered ice pack.

"Nobody's going to judge you for it," Blaine muttered. "It's an injury, and you should accept assistance."

Kurt's glare was petrifying. "There's not going to be ice packs in the arena," he snapped, before getting up and striding towards the sword station.

Now, as the sun set over the picture-perfect Capitol, three people remained in the Training Center, waiting for the summon. They were to show off for the Gamemakers, and then be ranked later tonight.

Santana sat next to Kurt, tapping her shoes on the polished steel flooring and inspecting her chipping nail polish. Blaine was seated across from them both, trembling ever so slightly with nerves. These numbers, these scores, were everything. Part of Blaine wanted to shy away so he'd get a low score and hopefully be forgotten by the careers in the arena, while the other part of him wanted to see just how high he'd get with his savored, hidden skill.

Blaine closed his eyes, dark lashes sweeping over his cheeks. He took a deep breath. Regardless of how he chose to perform, he needed to be relaxed.

"Nervous, there, Blanderson?"

Over the stretch of three days, Blaine had come to enjoy Santana's amusingly sarcastic remarks. He smiled at her. "Blanderon? Is that some sort of pet name?"

"You wish."

"But, uh, no. I'm not nervous," Blaine said. "Just a little…anticipated, I suppose."

"Do you have family back home?" The sarcasm had vanished from Santana's tone, and was instead replaced by an innocent curiosity.

"Yes, actually," he replied coolly. "An older brother here, a sister there. You know. Having large families in District 11 isn't out of the ordinary. How about you?"

She shrugged. "My mom, grandmother, and I. That's all. Kind of like, porcelain, here. He just lives with his dad."

Blaine snatched the opportunity to talk to the mute boy. "Do you ever get lonely, Kurt?"

Kurt flashed Santana a look that read "gee, thanks, just the moment I was waiting for". "Not really," he answered shortly. "My dad's kind of the chatterbox."

Blaine wondered if it was really his father, or Kurt's constant rambling that occupied stormy evenings close to the fire. "You're lucky. My father barely has enough time for me, not that it really matters."

Santana shrugged. "Eh, everybody's got that bitch in the family."

"Blaine Anderson."

The clear, sharp command echoed throughout the empty Training Center. Blaine looked blindly at his fellow tributes, as if it were their names called and not his.

"Good luck, Blanderson," Santana said softly.

* * *

><p>Kurt sat atop the District 12 flat, overlooking the blinking lights of the city below. A mug of hot cocoa was cupped firmly in his hands, a thin curl of smoke rising from lips of the mug to wind up into a blanket of stars. The entire balcony smelled like rosemary, a scent that reminded him pleasantly of his mother.<p>

The balcony was encircled with pots housing various flowers. The streets were alive with dancing, drinking, singing people, stories and stories below. It was so pretty, and peaceful above. Only the hum of blaring music shattered the silence so high above the world. It was almost as if Kurt had reached a new level in the world, one free of pollution and gaudy outfits; of drunk mentors and stylish speakers. It was only Kurt, the whispering stars, and faint memories sprinkled with freedom.

_Kurt was particularly upset that Monday afternoon as he took heavy steps through the doorway of his petite cottage. Not even the ever-welcome cloud of rosemary perfume that greeted him could lift his spirits. _

_He set his book bag down on the dining table, the one with the wobbly leg and chipped surface. His mother was scrubbing the kitchen counter tops with the patchwork cloth. _

_She looked up happily, blazing green eyes penetrating deep into Kurt's heart lovingly. Elizabeth's chestnut curls flowed over her square shoulders, her lips pursed curiously at her son's blanched expression. _

"_How was your day, honey?" she prodded. _

_Kurt sat down on the dusty floorboards in front of the fire with an exaggerated sigh. "Lucy Sommers' older brother died in the mines today," he whispered._

_Elizabeth knit her eyebrows together and walked over to her son. She sat down behind him and swept Kurt up into her lap. "Yes, dear, I heard about that," she murmured in his ear. _

"_She says…She says they aren't a family anymore because he's gone…Mama, are we not a family anymore because Shylee's g-gone?"_

"_What? Oh, Kurt, baby." The spoken name of their long-lost daughter, died of pneumonia when she was only two and Kurt was four, drove spikes into their hearts and electrified their senses. _

_Elizabeth rocked them back and forth for a moment. "Do you know what a family is?" she finally asked. "A mama, a papa, a brother and a sister," Kurt recited._

"_Not exactly, dear. A family can be just one mother, or maybe two sisters, a grandfather, or even two daddies. It doesn't have to be stereotypical. What makes a family is love, Kurt. Strength in love. It doesn't matter if you don't have a house anymore, or if you don't have a sister, as long as you have love, you'll always have a family. Me, and Daddy and you will always be a family. We'll always have love." _

_Kurt leaned back, contented. "For always?" _

"_For always." _

After Kurt's mother died two years later, they sure didn't feel like a family anymore. It just felt like they were the ghosts of a frayed family, striding around and completing routines like zombies. Ever since his mother's death, he and his father hadn't been as close. He often found Burt, frozen, in front of the fire and staring at the sole photograph of Elizabeth. They were broken, and mended with petty stitches that still allowed leaks to ooze down the sides of their scarred bodies.

Kurt took a slow sip of hot cocoa, which had gone cold from the time he spent indulged in memory. Kurt vaguely wondered if his mother would've been proud of what he had shown the Gamemakers that afternoon. He wondered if they would've been proud of the way he'd effortlessly sorted the plants, lodged a glittering knife hilt-deep in the dummy's head, or climbed swiftly up to hang from the nets attached to the ceiling.

He sighed. He'd never know.

"Kurt?" Holly pried open the screen door leading onto the balcony and poked her cotton candy pink hair through the crack. "Kurt, hurry! They're about to show the scores!"

He leaped off the balcony hastily, sloshing lukewarm cocoa onto the rosemary bushels. Santana, Emma, Alex and April were already curled up on the plush couches, eyes trained eagerly on the television.

Mr. Figgins, the Games go-to man for anything to be aired on television, was dressed in a shimmering white tuxedo. His skin was dusted with what appeared to be dried milk, a powdered wig on his head, his lips white and eyebrows died. He grinned easily at the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen-" an accent trimmed his words "-it is my absolute pleasure to announce this year's tribute training scores!"

Figgins was cut from the television as District 1's David Karofsky was projected. The image of his face, both demeaningly horrific and menacing, rotated above a brilliant ten. No surprise there.

"David Karofsky, District 1, with a high ten, ladies and gentlemen!" Figgins cried. Digitalized applause erupted throughout the room. "And his partner, Rachel Berry, with a lovely five. Congratulations to the Districts!"

The scores from then on out varied noticeably. District 5's Sebastian Smythe and Lauren Ziezes both retained nines, which made Santana shift uncomfortably. She and Lauren, a rather hefty girl with greasy hair, had an already boiling feud.

Brittany Pierce got a six, and Santana beamed at the average score. Beth Corcoran, Blaine's fellow District 11 accompany, received a nine, too. Kurt's eyebrows shot up. She was only twelve, short and scrawny. What was her masked impression?

Finally, Figgins hushed the invisible audience. "Here's the last tribute scores, ladies and gentlemen. Santana Lopez, female tribute of District 12 has gotten…An eight!"

The stylists and Holly clapped gleefully. "That's wonderful, dear, excellent," praised Holly, with a polite pat on her shoulder.

Santana blushed and turned away. "Look, look, Kurt's up."

"And for last but not least, Mr. Kurt Hummel of District 12 with a raging…ten!"

Kurt's jaw dropped. "Ten?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, my god!" giggled Holly.

"Kurt, that's amazing! Bravo," Emma cheered.

"Not bad, prince of the paupers," remarked April.

"Hummel," Santana said darkly, although she was beaming, "looks like I've got some competition in the arena.

Kurt scoffed and looked down at his hands. Figgins clapped his hands. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, those are the scores for tonight! A massive congratulations to our beloved tributes, especially Mr. David Karofsky and Kurt Hummel who carted in the top scores of the evening. Join us tomorrow night at five as we welcome the tributes to the stage! Thank you, Capitol!"

The screen faded to black and Holly jumped up, clapping her hands happily. "I am so proud! I don't know what you did or how you did it, but the Gamemakers are impressed. I'd say," she leaned in as if telling a secret, "that you actually have a chance to make it past the first day. But don't get your hopes up!"

Santana rolled her eyes at Kurt. "Gee, Hol, thanks."

Holly clapped her hands again. "It's getting late, and you've had quite the day, haven't you? And we've got social training all tomorrow, my god! Busy, busy, busy! Off to bed."

That night, although snuggly wrapped in silk pajamas beneath even silkier lavender-scented sheets, Kurt tossed and turned. In his dreams swam his mother's tender features worn with concern, sparkling suits severed with knives, and Figgins bombarding him with questions that turned his tongue into dry, stiff cotton.

He sat through breakfast in silence, forcing himself to take small bites of crispy bacon laden with grease. His orange juice rolled through his mouth and down his throat without a single register of the sweet taste. Santana was equally silent, staring down at her pancakes in intimate wariness.

Finally, April crumpled up her napkin and leaned back in her chair. "Ain't got nothing to be worried about," she said. "Holly 'n I are gonna walk you through everything. Content's with me, and Holly's got presentation. Four hours with me, 'n then lunch, 'n then four hours with Holly."

"Alright," Kurt mumbled.

"Kurt, you'll start with me," April said. "And Santana, you're with Ms. Rainbow over there."

Holly, dressed in a striped cupcake dress with her hair dyed in alternating pinks and greens, did resemble a rainbow. She turned her nose up at the comment, and pushed her plate aside. "Shall we begin?"

For the first half hour, April did nothing but plainly stare at Kurt. They were seated in the living room, sinking a near foot in the plush magenta sofa. Kurt writhed under April's hardened gaze, surprisingly sober after the morning shots of tequila. She was like a wax statue, just staring continuously.

When April spoke at last, it startled Kurt and he jumped an inch in the air. "Eh, there, pretty boy," she snorted. "After much deduction of your quite uninteresting personality, I've realized what I'm gonna do with you."

Kurt flinched. _Uninteresting?_

"You're gay, right?"

This caught him by surprise. He'd only ever told Darcy, and he was damn sure his father knew as well. And Santana, of course. "What?"

"It's ain't that hard to tell. You strut around, checking out that one bushy-haired fellow. Like I haven't noticed your fashion sense."

Kurt gaped at her for a second before clearing his throat. "Fine, okay, yeah. What does that have to do with anything?" he snapped.

April leaned forward. Her breath smelled like whiskey; her blue eyes were so close he could pick out the silver flecks surrounding the pupil. "You're going to play the innocent, fascinated country boy," she informed him. "You are going to appeared awed by the Capitol, by everything that they wear and do. Don't you _dare_ give away any fuckin' details about your damn training session, or what you showed the Gamemakers. You're stupid, you're astonished, and you got that ten by sheer luck."

Kurt nodded slowly.

"You have to throw off the other tributes. Confuse them, make them think that you're no threat. Make them think you're an idiot, and you have no interest in them whatsoever. Now, I'm serious, Kurt," she growled. "And another thing…Figgins, that goddamn host, will ask you anything and everything. He's got ninety seconds, and I promise you he will grill you for every last one of those seconds. Ask about your family, your work, your childhood, your priorities, your strategies, your stylists, your mentors, Holly, _your emotions. _Lie, Kurt, lie. I don't care what you tell them, as long as it's not the truth, understand?"

Kurt chewed his lip nervously. He had never been good at fibbing, and remembered a time when he was five and his father had spanked him for such behavior. "I-I'll try-"

"No," snarled April. "Trying is not good enough. You need to _do. _You need to make it believable. I'm not like Holly; I think you and the princess bitch actually have a chance to win. So I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you put up a damn good fight in that arena, you hear me?"

"Y-Yes," Kurt stammered. Suddenly the short, bleach blonde mentor appeared massive. Her insistence towered high above him, and he found himself sinking back into the couch.

"That's how I won," she whispered. Kurt felt like he was invading her thoughts, as April's aura changed to weary and self-conscious. "I played innocent, and childish. Hell, I even got a low score from the Gamemakers. Nobody gave me a second look, and that's what made them vunerable. They assessed the bigger tributes before they even dared to think of a measly girl like me. It's the most common strategy, and the most effective, Kurt."

Kurt lowered his gaze. His heartbeat was deafening in his ears. "Isn't there…Isn't there another way? I mean-" his voice broke. "I don't want to do this, April. I'm not a killer."

"Hey, hey," April muttered. "Don't go all cry baby on me. Nobody is a fucking killer, nobody wants to be a fucking killer. But the Capitol, it's all a game for them. They don't care that you're branded for eternity, or that you loose everything just to please them. They don't understand, Kurt, and they won't until somebody does it to them. By god, I wish someone would." She looked at the ceiling abruptly, and Kurt almost thought she was searching for surveillance cameras. "No one will, Kurt, so for the time being, we've got to get you prepared. Be killed or kill."

Kurt looked up at his mentor with tears hanging from his lashes. April laid her hand atop his gingerly. "Now let's work on facial expressions."

After a quick lunch of roast beef sandwiches three hours later, complete with Santana's death glares across the table, Kurt was whisked off to Holly. This session was conducted in Kurt's bedroom.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, watching as Holly paced the floor in front of him. She was clicking her false pink nails annoyingly, stumbling every few moments when her platform heels caught in the carpeting.

"So," she said, "April tells me that you want to play innocent. That's not an easy thing to portray. If you're too soft and sugary, they'll suspect something. Same if you're too cold and hard. You've got to get it just right…" She tapped her chin and then spun to face the wardrobe.

When she turned back around, Holly was slouching, leaning into herself. Her gaze was cast downwards, and her bottom lip trembled slightly. Kurt shied away, confused.

She straightened again, grinning. "I think I've got it. Did you see what I did? Come here, and I'll show you."

He sighed and clambered to his feet tiredly. She grabbed his shoulders gruffly and bent them in. He slouched, bending his knees. Holly shook her head. "No, no. For god's sake, Kurt, pay attention. You're shrinking away from the world, no becoming smaller. You're afraid and wowed at the same time," she informed him.

Kurt attempted to follow her directions. He slouched less, bent his heat, but peered up meekly through suspicious eyes. Holly surveyed his posture. "Not too bad."

For the next four hours, Kurt was lectured on the proper way to walk, act, what ways to look at everyone, and how to answer Figgins' questions. By three o'clock, Kurt was drenched in sweat and his head ached from all the "crucial" information he had stored there.

Kurt and Santana were next to be inspected by their stylists. This was the last outfit they'd have to design, and was the last outfit the Capitol would see them in other than their arena suits. This impression had to be the biggest.

Santana and Kurt were seated at the dressers tables, watching Alex and Emma stalk around behind them. Alex stooped to finger a lock of Santana's hair, before turning to whisper to Emma. Kurt's skin had been washed raw in the shower and he was dressed in a spongy robe.

"Alright," Emma said finally. "I think we know what we're going to do."

Kurt hair was trimmed. It no longer reached past to tickle his neck, and instead rested just above his ears. Emma took long strips of foil and painted streaks of blonde into Kurt's hair. When she was finished, his chestnut hair was no longer dull, but had subtle blonde mixed in. Emma had combed through some gel and styled his hair into a swift coif.

Kurt's cheekbones were highlighted and his lips died a pale pink to secure the innocence. Kurt was fitted into a loose tuxedo that shimmered red, orange and yellow when caught in the correct lighting. His tie resembled a flame.

He stood in front of the mirror, admiring his reflection and Emma's work. He looked dashingly proud. He smoothed back his hair and adjusted his lapel.

Santana, going for the powerful, dominant, sexy persona according to April, wore a sparkling ruby red gown with a long split down the chest. Her hair hung in it's usual glossy ebony ringlets. She wore make-up that shadowed her features, making her appear mysterious and attractively superior. She stuck out her bottom lip and cocked her head, narrowing her eyes.

"How do I look?" she said with a silky drawl and curled the ends of her words.

"Damn," was all Kurt could muster. Clearly Santana had passed April's lessons.

Emma sprayed Kurt with an nauseatingly delightful perfume and added a last dash of blush on his cheeks. "There you are, dear," she commented. "Time to get you up on stage."

Kurt swallowed hard as he was lead through the winding hallways below the stage and stopped at the end of a long line of tributes being perfected. He would be the last, of course, because he was the male of District 12. This meant that they, like the Gamemakers, would be nothing more than positively bored. He hoped Mr. Figgins would at least be lively.

The stylists were asked to exit, as the show was to begin. Rachel was lead on stage, concealed by red velvet curtains. Figgins shook her hand and helped her to sit down.

A blinking sign that read "on air" was above the doorway to the platform, and it was flashing red. A tall man with a headset instructed the tributes to be quiet throughout the entire show, otherwise they would be escorted back to their apartments. Kurt sat down beside Santana on the very end of the cool metal bench.

"If you get nervous," Emma told Kurt, "I'll be in the front row. You can look at me, okay?"

"Thanks," Kurt replied.

There was also a television perched on the table next to refreshments. "Ladies, and gentlemen, silence please! On air in five."

Rachel's hair was back in a ponytail, and she wore a see-through green net dress. The curtains went up and the audience roared with applause. Already, a timer was counting down the seconds Mr. Figgins would have with Rachel.

"Good evening, Capitol!" he shouted, receiving more exuberant cheering. "It is my _absolute, endearing pleasure _to introduce tonight's first lovely tribute: Ms. Rachel Berry!"

Rachel waved to the crowd expertly. "Thank you for having me on the show, Mr. Figgins," she gushed.

Figgins nodded happily. "Speaking of, darling, how are you liking the Capitol?"

"My god," Rachel's eyes morphed into stars. "It's magnificent! I mean, I've never seen anything like it. When I win the Games, I'm going to move out here."

"When?" repeated Figgins, with an "aw" from the crowd. "So you're confident?"

The feeble banter between the talk show host and tributes went on and on. Kurt found himself learning about the tributes. Rachel had an amazing set of cords that she flaunted proudly to the audience. David Karofsky flexed his muscles and growled menacingly at the front row of stylists. Sugar Motta had a lot of wealth, and therefore connections. Noah Puckerman did one-fingered push-ups on the stage. Quinn Fabray giggled and giggled nonstop. Sam Evans smiled with charm and suave and made a shout-out to the single ladies present. Harmony Lovett brushed her hair over her shoulder a lot, and stared blankly when Figgins asked a question. Finn Hudson showed off a tattoo on his bicep. Lauren Ziezes threatened to tackle Figgins and bared her teeth. Sebastian Smythe stared deeply at every person, prying into their souls. Sunshine Corazon talked about how much she missed her family. Jesse St. James preformed a number of stretches. Mike Chang and Tina Cohen-Chang were lovers. Becky Jackson had autism and many spectators cried out in pity. Jeff Ryerson modeled. Mercedes Jones wept for a moment when asked about how she felt. Artie Abrams shared a story from his childhood about his leg injury. Brittany Pierce waved to her parents on camera. Rory Flanagan said that he enjoyed the Capitol's lengthy supply of food. Beth Corcoran whispered that she missed her mommy and asked for a tissue. Blaine Anderson winked and told jokes. Santana puffed out her chest and boasted about how exhilarating it was to "observe the variety of striking men".

When the timer signaled the end of Santana's interview, she embraced Figgins and kissed his cheek. He lead her off stage, and laughed with the crowd about her flirtiness.

Kurt's palms were drenched, his breath coming in short gasps. He waited for the assistant to lead him on stage. He paced himself, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. _Innocent, fascinated,_ he reminded himself.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please welcome our final interview of the night: Mr. Kurt Hummel."

Kurt walked on stage, remembering to cower somewhat. He took his time rounding the plush white couch before sitting down and taking Figgins' hand with shaky fingers.

"How are you tonight, Kurt?" Figgins asked.

He was so near that Kurt could smell his cologne and pick out the dots of glitter on his nose. "Fine, thank you," he responded quietly.

"Tell us about yourself, Kurt. What do you like to do?" Figgins pressed.

Kurt straightened a bit, racking his brain. He couldn't say anything about Darcy… "I like to help my father in the mines. He's an expert in there, and I want to follow in his footsteps."

"Really? How interesting. And tell us about your father."

Kurt bit his lip, looking up bashfully into the stark blinding white lights. "He's a strong man," he said, "strong and willing. He can keep any promise, really, and he loves me more than anything."

"And your mother?"

"Sh-she stays home…And works." Kurt faltered, and searched desperately for Emma and April.

April, her usual supply of alcohol absent, was watching him like a hawk with an expression indifferent.

"How do you feel about the Capitol?"

"It's the most _fascinating thing! _I wish I could've come sooner. It's like a magical wonderland that never ends. I wish I had the time to see all of it." He stuck out his bottom lip as Figgins rested his hand on the couch's armrest.

"Oh, Kurt, win the Games and you can visit the Capitol all you want!" The crowd chuckled. "Speaking of the Games, how do you feel about entering tomorrow? Nervous? Excited? Proud?"

"Terrified," he confessed. "I-I don't think I have the guts to win."

"Sure you do. You've just got to have faith," Figgins said with a wink to the crowd.

The buzzer went off and Figgins beamed. "It's past time, everyone, and I have no doubt these pour tributes are bustling with excitement for tomorrow's Games. We'd better let them get to sleep, so it's time to bid farewell. It was lovely having you on the show!"

"Thank you," Kurt exclaimed.

Figgins shook his hand once more as the curtains closed. Kurt caught a glimpse of April in her seat in the front row, grinning with accomplishment.


	6. The Night Before

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>Six  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3, 047

**A/N: **I can't even express my gratitude! The alerts and favorites along with reviews have been swarming me everyday! Thank you all eternally for giving this story a chance. I hope I won't disappoint :) I'm graduating school tomorrow, and after that comes summer vacation which means more time to write! Updates will hopefully be more frequent and the chapters will be longer and better quality. Again, I'm checking the actual book for references and making sure the details are all right, so please catch me if I miss something. Was anyone else ready to hunt down Ryan Murphy and make him run into your knife ten times after _Goodbye?_ Because goddamn. That was the worst episode ever. I, of course, blame him for this chapter delay. struckbylightningbowties on tumblr - check me out :) Thank you all AGAIN! This chapter begins with President Sue and the Gamemaker Will, has a Blaine and Santana POV sandwich, and slides back into the usual Kurt Hummel. Prepare yourself for the Games next chapter - it will be brutal.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _Glee _characters, nor _The Hunger Games, _both of which are too amazing to be owned by me.

* * *

><p>He leaned over the flicking image of a virtual world, and smiled. The first thing you need to know about Will Schuester is that he <em>does not smile. <em>Like a foreign concept, it stretched his chapped lips until they burned. His eyebrow narrowed and he grinned down at the image.

In the dim green lighting from the humming lamps overhead, Will appeared evil. Everything was ready for tomorrow; a freshly created batch of mutated animals prepared to feast on the tender flesh of the tributes, concealed along a daring stretch of obstacle courses.

"Are you almost done with your cackling, William?" It was a voice of a cocky, stubborn ruler; it was the voice of Schuester's tormentor; it was the commanding voice of President Sue Sylvester. "Because I'm here to actually get something accomplished."

Sue sashayed across the rooms, weaving between stainless steal desks covered with blinking buttons and remotes. She was dressed in a flowing white tracksuit, with a glittering tiara barrette atop her short, white-blonde hair.

She slapped her palm down beside the image, resulting in a crackle that split through the image before it went back to the immaculate virtual copy of the arena. "Hmm," said Sue, leaning in to give it a closer look. "Not bad, but…not enough."

Schuester scoffed. "Sue - President Sylvester, I spent _eight months_ perfecting this! Look at it, it's amazing! We've laid out the events-"

"Yes, yes." Sue waved her hand in annoyance. "But, see, I don't really care about the scenery, William, I care about the malicious lab-raised beasts." Schuester dropped his jaw, and Sue sighed. "Good god, are you trying to bore everyone to sleep?"

"I - but-," Schuester stammered. "You never said that's what you wanted."

"Ah," Sue remarked as she calmly began to pace the room, track shoes clicking on the marble flooring. "Should I really have to tell you? It's obvious that's what the people want." Sue spun around on her heel. "Now, let me ask you this: what ranks most popular in the Games rating each year, William? Huh?"

Schuester worried his bottom lip, clenching his fists. He was nearing the end of his rope with her. "The polar bears," he murmured, referring to last year's arctic arena, in which a group of disease-ridden bears had mauled every last tribute.

"And why's that?"

Schuester was silent. Sue raised her eyebrows.

"It's because, William, people like to feel the pump of adrenalin as their favorite tribute is being ripped to death. It's because people like to know that the districts are put into place by the savory, thrilling exhilaration of death." Sue sat down on one of the desk chairs and propped her feet up on the table, no doubt scuffing the surface, Schuester thought. She crossed her hands over her stomach and grinned up at the Gamemaker. "So, William, we need some adventure in the 28th Annual Hunger Games. Nobody gives a crap about the patterns in the goddamn leaves, or the pretty little fishies swimming in the sea. No. People want death; malicious, sharp-clawed, snarling, evil beasties trained specifically to recognize the smell of every tribute's DNA."

Schuester sighed, and glanced at his watch. It was ten 'til eleven. The games began in eleven hours. He had to have everything finished! There was no time for improvements. "President Sylvester, I understand your dilemma, unfortunately-"

"No, I don't think you do understand, William. There is no '_unfortunately_' if you understand. I am the president, and therefore it is your rightful duty to accomplish what I instruct, got it? I want you to scrap the scenery and start bringing in the beasts," she said meaningfully.

Schuester closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Terri, his wife, would be angry. "Okay."

"Thank you, William," Sue said through her smile. "I'll be sure to shorten your death sentence." She stood up, stretched, and clapped him on the back good-naturedly as she turned to exit. "Just kidding, William, take a breath, will you?"

Schuester stared scornfully down at the image. Sue stopped on her way out the door. "Oh, I almost forgot. Happy Hunger Games."

* * *

><p><strong>Blaine Anderson:<strong>

Blaine hated sleeping. A doctor from his village has once called him an insomniac, whatever that meant. So, instead of sleeping, Blaine would think. Thinking wasn't so bad as long as you kept the bad things under lock and key, and let the good things flow freely.

After the interview, everyone retired to bed quickly. Tomorrow was going to the be hell, and they all needed their rest for it. Blaine showered in soapy blue suds, and dressed in clingy gold pajamas before curling up in bed.

The large screen that took up an entire wall was switched to window mode. Pearly moonlight filtered through the panes, webbing in intricate patterns across the plush carpeting.

Blaine turned on his side, staring up at the empty black ceiling, and shattered the wall of his mind. Thoughts cascaded around his skull like a tsunami. His emotions were freed from their cage; happiness from the scores he and Beth had received, dread because the Games were tomorrow, but the most recurring emotion was…something unexplainable.

It boiled in his stomach, and made his heart pound. He had tracked the source to Kurt. Kurt's turquoise eyes flecked with gold, his rosy cheeks, his thin lips, the way his brow creased when he was concentrating, his slender shoulders always cocked backwards for proper posture. He never crossed his arms, and always stood with his feet apart: the pose of a true performer. He saw the way Kurt was constantly humming a tune under his breath, and the way his fingers tapped out the beat on the hilt of a weapon. Kurt was a truly amazing individual.

It made Blaine's chest seize at the thought of being forced to kill Kurt. But then, he realized, he really didn't have to kill Kurt at all. Blaine had said it before, but he wasn't so sure anymore. He wouldn't kill…He would, though. He would for Kurt.

Blaine clutched the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Was love this consuming? Did love take over your mind, your body, your sanity? Blaine felt like he would be willing to give Kurt anything, and suddenly his mind wandered to the possibility of Kurt's hands roaming his body, but he quickly shut that door.

If this was love, he didn't think he could bare it. Blaine no longer came first, it was Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

For the first time in Blaine's life, he resented his thoughts. He rolled over and lifted the blankets over his head as if to block them out. Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

* * *

><p><strong>Santana Lopez: <strong>

Her door was locked; of course it was. Santana stared down at the steel doorknob, waiting for it to twist. When it did nothing, she crumpled to the ground and pressed her back against the door.

Santana tangled her fingers in her hair and released a pent-up sigh. Her chest felt like it was about to explode. The _Games _were _tomorrow. _It was kill or be killed, and Santana had far too much at home to be killed, despite April's preaching about the permanent brandings of a murderer.

There was something inside Santana that she had never experienced before. Ice cold fear. It caused her fingers to tremble, her breathing to come in harsh gasps, her gaze to blur and her stomach to hurt.

She'd been through plenty of terrifying things in her lifetime, but nothing like this. Santana wanted nothing more than to be back home, safe and sound, in the caring arms of her mother.

Tears rolled thickly down her cheeks, and collected at the corners of her mouth. She blinked up, lashes wet, and watched the twinkling stars in the night sky. This was the last time she'd ever get to see them.

* * *

><p><strong>Kurt Hummel: <strong>

Kurt's dreams, occupying his rare, brief moments of sleep he managed to get in, were salted with random memories and made-up scenarios. The clips played through his mind quickly, and as incredibly mashed together as a hastily sewn tapestry of terror.

His mother's weary face, a knife shrieking much too close to his ear, a pool of sinking sand closing over his head, crumbling pine branches in a forest fire, the splatter of blood on a tile floor, and most recurring and startling of all: Blaine's lifeless body swaying in the murky, retreating waves of an ocean.

Kurt kicked away the silky cuccoon of blankets and crawled onto the plush carpeting. Everything was too comfortable and luxurious. He felt out of place like a kitten in a swarm of puppies.

He eventually curled up at the base of his bed and flicked on the television to watch a rerun of the evening's interview. Over and over again, he observed the other tributes. He took in how they moved, the facial expressions they made, and the way they responded to particularly personal questions.

Finally, the soft colors of sunrise began to tone the sky and he decided it was time for a shower. Holly wouldn't be around to wake up until seven thirty, and then they'd devour a fast breakfast and head off to the hovercrafts which would transport them to the Games destination.

No matter how many times Kurt scrubbed himself with the different soaps, he couldn't wash away his fear. It was hard, consuming and dug into his very soul, latching on with silvery claws and promising an extended stay.

When he got out of the shower, he toweled his hair dry with one of the fluffy green cloths on the sink, and took his time patting every droplet of water from his skin. He gripped the sink corner, leaning in towards the mirror and studying his appearance.

His eyes were surrounded by sallow rings, his cheeks sunken. Kurt looked ever so pale in the mirror, with skinny limbs and his collarbone poking out above his chest.

Without warning, Kurt caught a vision of himself caked with blood and dotted with bruises. His jaw was slack, broken, he guessed, and he lay naked upon a probing table.

He stumbled backward, tripping over the toilet and smacking his head against the marble tub. Kurt sat up in a daze, waiting for the temporary nausea to pass.

"Kurt! Are you in there? Get up! It's almost time!" Holly shouted from his bedroom door.

Kurt stood on wobbly legs and padded back to the dresser to retrieve a velvet pair of trousers and a plain white t-shirt. He slicked his hair back and cleaned his teeth until his gums bleed. He didn't know when he'd next be able to brush them - if he ever got to brush them again at all.

He entered the dining room. Emma smiled dryly at him as she spooned Jell-O onto her plate, Alex seated next to her. Santana appeared as if she hadn't gotten much sleep either, pushing her scrambled eggs around the china dish. April wasn't going slow on her morning whiskey and instead was taking loud chugs. Holly beamed happily and motioned to the seat next to her.

"Eat up," she said. "You'll need protein for the Games."

Kurt took tentative bites of sausage. The greasy food felt foreign in his knotted stomach. After downing a glass of orange juice, a bite of a blueberry pancake and two strips of crispy bacon, Holly lead them downstairs into the training center.

A massive hovercraft whirring and sending clouds of dust spinning upwards was where stuffed dummies and weapons used to lie. This was it, Kurt realized. His goodbyes to April and Holly.

Holly have him a petite hug, patting his back once awkwardly. "You've got this in the bag, I'm sure," she said. She looked like a doll with her plastic blonde hair and tight maroon corset. "Best of luck, dear."

Kurt nodded, offering a pathetic grin. "Thanks for everything."

April was next. She smelled like rubbing alcohol and vomit. Her bleach blonde hair stuck up and she had neglected to put on make-up that morning. April pulled Kurt to him in a breath-stealing embrace. Her head fit under his chin, she was so short, and Kurt could feel her plump breasts against his belly.

"Listen," she whispered urgently. "I've got a plan. You can do this, I know you can."

She pulled back, and took a swig from her whiskey bottle. "Now get out there and kick some ass, lady."

Kurt bit his lip and followed Santana, Emma and Alex onto the hovercraft. There were about thirty seats against each wall on the hovercraft, metal with built-in seatbelts. Most of the tributes were already strapped in and watching as the newcomers boarded.

Emma and Alex were escorted to a different seating room for stylists, while Santana and Kurt were ordered to sit along the line next to Mike Chang and Tina Cohen-Chang from District 7.

Before takeoff, a nurse in a slim white coat came along and injected tracking chips into everyone's left bicep. It stung as the instrument catapulted the chip into his muscle, and under his bone.

The first part of the flight was calm and quiet. Everyone was in a frenzied daze, dreaming up what horrors this year's Games would possess. The scenery out the windows was magnificent. Soon, the stretching, multicolored buildings of the Capitol disappeared and was replaced by a gloomy pine forest surrounded by swirling fog. The weather did not agree with the merry mood of the Capitol attendants.

The Games would begin at ten, and it was only nine. The tributes would have time to prepare privately with their stylists once they arrived at the arena. Suddenly, the windows were concealed with a black seal, which meant they were nearing the arena.

Kurt inhaled deeply, leaned back and closed his eyes. He was dizzy with fright and sick with the motion from the hovercraft.

The hovercraft lurched and descended downward. "Attention all tributes, you are to exit the vehicle with in an orderly fashion into private compartments. Thank you for flying with us."

Kurt's eyes widened. They were here. _They were here. _He heard Santana swallow thickly and attempted to shoot her a practiced, sympathetic gaze, but it came out sour and teary.

Once unbuckled after landing, Kurt and Santana strode down a bleak hallway to separate rooms and waved solemnly at one another. Emma helped to dress him in a burgundy skin-tight black suit.

"Hmm," she remarked, standing back to look him over. "Judging by the attire, I'd say you're going somewhere with warm climate. If you were going somewhere warm, it'd be thicker and waterproof. And look - there's also a hat. Definitely somewhere hot."

Kurt collapsed on the hard couch behind them and put his head in his hands. "Oh, god," he murmured.

Emma sat down next to him, blinking her pink, sparkly eyelashes. "It's going to be okay," she whispered.

"I'm going to die, Emma," he said steadily, despite the infuriating fear he felt.

"Hey, hey, you don't know that for sure. You can make it, Kurt, we all know it. You're strong and courageous and good god, boy, you've got to have sponsors. You and Santana both. You're crowd pleasers," Emma countered.

When this received no response, Emma stalked over to a table with platters of appetizers and a pitcher of ice water. "Drink something, eat something. You don't know when you're next going to be able to."

Kurt barely tasted the frigid liquid as it slid placidly down his throat. He was only conscious of his fear. They sat in silence for the next half hour, waiting in an anticipated stance.

A sharp _ding! _interrupted the quiet and Emma matched his gaze. "It's time."


	7. Sour Lemonade

**Title: **Cotton Fluff Ambitions  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>Seven  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for language and character death  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>2,789

**A/N: **Oh, my fucking god, I am so embarassed! I haven't updated in almost two months! I'm so sorry! The favorites and reviews are piling in by the minutes and I cannot express my gratitude! I meant to upload sooner, but there were so many edits and I was kind of blocked. Thank you for all your support and concern. I promise that updates will be more frequent from now on. Again, if you have any questions or suggestions, you can review/PM me, or visit my tumblr: struckbylightningbowties. Thank you so much! :)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _Glee _characters, nor _The Hunger Games, _both of which are too amazing to be owned by me.

* * *

><p>Sixty seconds. Kurt had sixty seconds to formulate a plan. Kurt had sixty seconds to find equipment and hightail it out of there. Kurt had sixty seconds to take in his surroundings. And Kurt had sixty seconds before hell broke loose.<p>

The moment Kurt's metal platform rose up on land, he immediately began to look around, and felt his stomach drop in the most unpleasant, horrific way when he caught sight of this year's arena.

All twenty-four tributes were arranged in a circular formation around the shiny, golden cornucopia. The cornucopia was spewing loaded backpacks, tent packs, baskets of food, metal water canteens, all sorts of useful supplies placed randomly along the rolling sand hills.

Sand. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see, it was only flat stretches of sand leading up to the steep sides of dunes. The sun drew beads of sweat on Kurt's forehead and the back of his neck. He could already tell that this would be the constant, persistent weather, and knew that there would be many tribute deaths due to the heat.

He also could predict that finding a source of water wouldn't be easy, and most likely would be taken over by the strongest of the tributes.

Kurt turned his head, and noticed Rory, from District 11 on his right, and Lauren from District 5 on his left. Lauren's determination and bulky form would mean that she would be dominating any of the equipment on that side, so Kurt supposed his best bet was retrieving the pale white backpack several yards away from Rory.

Eleven seconds left. Just _seconds. _He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The cameras were no doubt airing the tributes' expressions now, snickering over who looked the most devastated and who looked ready to kill.

Kurt had never been religious, seeing as the so-called "god" had never assisted his family or any others with financial problems, and he had never uttered a prayer in his life. Somehow, at this moment, it felt right. He didn't know if it was to a god, or perhaps some spirit of his mother, or maybe just an empty plea for help.

He silently wished that his father would be alright for the years to come, and that he'd somehow find a way to keep on living despite his many losses. He wished that Darcy would prosper, and achieve all that Kurt hadn't been able to. He wished, with quivering lips, that April would clean up her act enough to help out next year's tributes. He wished that Santana, the little girl from District 11, and everyone else would have quick, painless deaths. But most of all, Kurt wished desperately that this would all _end. _He wished for _change. _

"Ladies and gentlemen, with great pleasure, I present to you the annual 28th Hunger Games! May the odds ever be in your favor…"

Nobody realized that was the cue for one frozen half-second in time. And then with a loud battle cry, David Karofsky had catapulted off his metal platform and began to race towards the cornucopia.

Other tributes, screaming and following his lead, lunged toward various weapons and began to engage in combat. Kurt couldn't think anymore. All logic, and his previously made plans were drained from his mind and replaced with electrifying terror.

He stumbled through the sand, taking in the fact that the sand would make it hard for everyone to get away quickly, but would also conceal tracks easily.

Rory had decided to run right into the heart of the battle, abandoning the backpack that had been closest to him, along with a small silver canteen. Kurt tripped in haste, sprawling in the sand and then jumping to his feet. Out of the cloud of sand appeared Quinn, with her blonde hair mussed and a streak of blood across her cheek.

She held a spear in one hand, and when she glared at Kurt, he could feel her radiating fury. Quinn, the angelic girl from District 4, the one that had giggled on camera and grinned with accented, flawless make-up, had the gruesome pierce of a murderous assassin in her eyes.

Kurt backed up slowly, blinking just to make sure that she wasn't a mirage. The clashing of weapons merged with high-pitched screams and firing cannons that signaled a tribute's death. The air was thick with sand and heat.

"ARGGG!" she screamed, charging forward and launching the spear.

It lodged in the sand next to his foot. Kurt emitted a high-pitched cry, and in his effort to avoid the spear, fell backwards and smacked his head against a rock, holding the backpack up to shield himself.

Quinn ran at him once more, this time straddling his lap and beginning to gruffly pry the backpack from his clutch. "GIVE IT TO ME!" she screeched.

Kurt kicked wildly, just as insistent to hold onto the backpack as Quinn was to get it. Her tone, the blood on her cheek, made him wonder if perhaps she had been given drugs of some sort, but this was _not in any way_ the perfect angel from the interviews. Then again, maybe that was Quinn's approach.

Quinn retrieved her spear, hissing so much that droplets of spit splattered Kurt's bottom lip. She stabbed the spear into the backpack's front pocket and dragged down; the rip of fabric was barely audible above the continuing shouts and Quinn's growls.

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

Suddenly, Quinn was hefted off of Kurt and tossed to the side. Kurt didn't waste time scrambling to his feet and hurrying a few paces away. Blaine had picked up Quinn and pushed her down again, so she was hurriedly spitting and clawing at him angrily.

"Run!" Blaine cried.

Kurt turned on his heel and sprinted towards the dunes. Once he safely arrived on the peak of the nearest dune, he beckoned for Blaine to hurry. Quinn had gotten bored with the chase and found a new tribute to attack. Blaine started towards Kurt, but then skidded to a stop and spun around to run straight into the cloud of sand that hid the main battle.

"Blaine!" Kurt shouted. "No!"

Blaine ignored his pleas and continued on until he was consumed by the cloud. Kurt pressed his sweaty palm to his temple. "What the hell," he murmured to himself.

Kurt pondered leaving Blaine, and searching for a source of water before the survivors of the battle realized that was a necessity. But he couldn't; Blaine had just_ saved _him. "Blaine!" Kurt resumed yelling.

He emerged from the cloud, coughing into his shoulder and carrying the limp body of his fellow District 11 tribute: Beth Corcoran. Her head flopped as she ran, with two extra backpacks and a strange wooden board also loaded in his arms.

Kurt slid down the dune and hurried towards Blaine to help. At first, he didn't know why Blaine suddenly fell to his knees. Then he saw the arrow planted in Blaine's left shoulder.

He ran faster and helped Blaine by taking Beth from him. She muttered something in her unconsciousness; damp, sweaty, dark hair against Kurt's chest. Kurt didn't know how far they ran, or where to, but eventually the sounds from the combat vanished.

Kurt slowed his pace to walk and glanced behind him to see Blaine, pale and panting, carrying all three backpacks.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked softly.

Blaine mopped his forehead with the back of his hand and nodded blankly. Drying blood covered his neck and snaked down his arm. He winced with every step, hunched over in the slightest.

Kurt glanced down at the girl in his arms. Despite Beth's age, she was considerably light, and Kurt felt like he could carry her for miles. "What happened to her?" he wanted to know.

Blaine coughed. "Someone hit her on the back of her head. Sorry if she's slowing you down…I couldn't leave her, you know?"

Kurt smiled. "I'm glad you didn't."

"C-could we stop?" Blaine said quietly.

"Yes, yes, of course. Let's see what we have here." Kurt tossed a stare over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being pursued.

Once Blaine sat down on the scalding sand, Kurt set Beth down beside him and began to rummage through their backpacks. The first contained a black tarp, a canteen and a small loaf of bread wrapped in cellophane. The second held a sunhat, sunglasses, sunscreen, a first-aid kit and a cow skin water jug. The third had the same items as the first, including dried apple slices and thin crackers.

Kurt sighed shakily, also fishing out the empty canteen he had retrieved and the odd board of wood Beth had picked up. "Alright," he said. "Perhaps we shouldn't eat just yet…We don't have that much to spare, and I don't know how long it'll be until we can find more food."

He lifted up the water jug. "This is the only water we have," Kurt explained wearily. "We should ration it. Do you think you can hold out?"

Blaine's eyes were drooping. Kurt could tell that he was slipping away, due to his massive blood loss. He was stupid to force Blaine to walk this far.

"Here," Kurt said, grabbing one of the crackers, "eat this. It'll make you feel better."

Blaine's lips trembled as he took a timid bite of the cracker. Kurt shifted on his knees, taking out the first-aid kit. "Okay, I'm going to look at your injury," he whispered.

Kurt stifled a gasp when he realized exactly how deep the arrow had penetrated his shoulder. The entire head was buried in a gash as wide as Kurt's wrist, blood oozed from the purpling, swollen edges of the cut.

"Oh, my-my god," Kurt choked out, forcing himself to take slow breaths. "It's going to be fine. I'm going to fix it, and then you'll be fine."

Blaine's trembling had spread to his entire body. "It's bad?" he whimpered.

"No, no. Just eat your cracker," replied Kurt evenly. He dug around in the first-aid supplies, searching for some kind of fabric that would pressurize the cut after the arrow was removed. A small wad of cotton seemed efficient enough.

Kurt gritted his teeth together, placing the cotton near the gash. "On the count of three…One-"

"What's going to happen on three?" Blaine demanded, craning his neck to see what Kurt was doing.

"Two-" Kurt gripped the stem of the arrow and wrenched his hand backward sharply. The arrow pulled backward with a sickening _squelch! _and Kurt fell on the sand behind him.

Blaine released a strangled sob, and Kurt rushed up to apply pressure to the gash. Blood quickly soaked the cotton and he ripped through his shirt and pressed with both palms onto his injury.

Tears slipped down his cheeks plentifully as the bleeding steadily ended. He found the packaged needle and sterilized thread and began to stitch the ends of the gash together with them.

Somewhere along the way, because Blaine had been crying, Kurt told him a story to distract him. About when his mother had gotten lemons from the marketplace and together they had made lemonade. But when they tasted it, it was much too tart. He talked of how they sat on the front porch, pretending that there was sugar mixed in the lemon juice. He told Blaine about how wonderful everything had seemed that day, and how quickly it had ended. When it was over at last, Kurt wrapped his shoulder in gauze and lay down in the sand.

The sun was setting, pastel colors dashing over the darkening sky. The temperature had dropped noticeably, and a startling chill soon replaced the burning sun.

"You said three," Blaine chuckled. His eyes were glassy.

Kurt smiled sullenly. "Should we set up camp here?"

Blaine glanced down at his shoulder. A crimson patch was already growing where he was bleeding through the bandages. "I think we should tend to Beth before we anywhere else."

Kurt nodded. He decided against a fire because he knew that the smoke, and light would be prompt in such a blank landscape. He unfolded the tarp, and propped it up against the base of their dune. Blaine moved up onto it and Kurt lifted Beth beside him.

Kurt then flipped Beth over on her side so he could check out the source of her pain. Her hair was matted with dried blood. There was a two-inch cut raging down the very center of her skull. Thankfully, it wasn't deep.

Kurt used the same method he used with Blaine's gash; he stitched it up after thoroughly cleaning it. He didn't know what else he could do. He didn't have any experience with head injuries, and Beth's immediate pasty skin frightened him.

He smoothed back her hair and tipped a couple drops of water between her lips before covering her up with one of the tarp corners and kissing her pale forehead. By the time he had finished, it had grown hauntingly dark.

Flickering, bright stars dotted the black velvet sky. There was absolutely no sound. Kurt remembered the sounds of crickets chirping and of brisk conversation between men returning from late shifts in the mine. He would lie in his bed, consumed by the utterly transfixing sounds of night, and make up names for the glistening stars. Even in the Capitol, car horns beeping comforted him.

Here, there was nothing but horrific silence. It made him feel like there was someone watching. Abruptly, he was reminded of the Capitol's cameras and he swallowed hard, his dry throat agonized.

"You okay?" Blaine asked.

"Yeah." Kurt cleared his throat, sitting back and placing his hands in his lap.

"You should eat something," Blaine advised.

Kurt shook his head, still persisting to ignore the growing hunger nestled in his stomach. "I'm alright. Besides, we need to save it. I have no clue how the hell we're supposed to scavenge out here."

Blaine exhaled calmly. "Well, there must be something out here. The Gamemakers like to prolong the Games."

Kurt nodded.

"I liked that story of your mother. It seemed very close to your heart."

Kurt swallowed again. Before he could reply, the Capitol anthem blared from unseen speakers. They turned their attention to the night sky, where the a projection of the Capitol symbol was being displayed.

Kurt took a shaky breath. He hoped that he wouldn't see Santana's face on the screen.

The first was the familiar face of Sugar Motta from District Two was the first to pop up. It was clear that her throat had been slit. Sam Evans from District Three, a massive gash racing from his left eye to his jaw. Harmony Lovett from District Four. Sebastian Smythe from Five. Both from Six, Seven, Eight and Nine. Rory Flanagan from District Ten.

Something settled deep in Kurt. Santana wasn't dead, and neither was the girl she had crushed on…Brittany. There were thirteen dead, and eleven left, all spread out in the desert, watching as the Capitol seal concluded the showing.

"David, Rachel, Noah, Quinn, Finn, Lauren, Brittany, Santana," Blaine recited. "Those are the ones left."

"Me, you and Beth," Kurt continued.

He met Blaine's gaze. His hazel eyes were hooded with exhaustion and thirst, and yet, there was a spark in them. Kurt remembered seeing that spark somewhere else; in his father's eyes when the medic said his mother was going to live. But she died.

It was false hope.


End file.
